


A Christmas Carol: In Storybrooke

by ladyofthewoo



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Charles Dickens - Freeform, Christmas, Christmas carol, Complete, Inspired by A Christmas Carol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-10 00:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12287424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthewoo/pseuds/ladyofthewoo
Summary: An adaptation of Charles Dickens' novella, "A Christmas Carol."**AUTHORS NOTE** Much like the work, "Pride & Prejudice & Zombies," this fanfiction is mostly comprised of alterations, additions, and omissions to the original source material, with much of the original verbiage remaining intact. So, in a way, I'm more of the co-author than the originator. If you would like to read the original story, you can do so at gutenberg.org-----Hard-hearted and bitter, Mr. Gold, is given a chance for redemption when he is haunted by three ghosts on Christmas Eve.-----





	1. Mr. Gold

Jefferson was dead: to begin with.

There is no doubt whatsoever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Gold had also signed it: and his signature meant a great deal. For all that could be said about Mr. Gold, it is worth noting that his name, and his word, held a substantial amount of credibility. Young Jefferson Hatter was, indeed, as dead as a door-nail.

He and Mr. Gold had been off-and-on partners for a great many years. And it was Gold who was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, and his sole friend.

Though he was not his sole mourner; much to Gold’s astonishment, a young girl and her governess also attended Jefferson’s modest funeral.

It was not often that Gold was surprised. He prided himself with knowing the intimate details of all whom he dealt with. It provided him a sort of higher ground when making business propositions, deals, blackmail, and, at times, threats. Leave it to Jefferson to keep the secret of his only offspring tight to the chest; Gold wondered, privately, who the mother could possibly be. The girl looked nothing like the man; her hair was the color of ripe wheat, and her skin and eyes were pale. She was a solemn little thing; quiet, small, and sad; with a seriousness that Gold had never witnessed in Jefferson. She kept her face buried in her governess’ skirts as they lowered her unfortunate father into the ground.

Little moved Gold. He was nowhere near so dreadfully cut up by the sad event. He remained an excellent man of business even on the very day of the funeral, and had solemnized it earlier with an undoubted bargain.

There is, indeed, no doubt that Jefferson was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wondrous can come from the story I am about to relate.  

Jefferson’s girl, Alice was her name, was put into the Storybrooke Institution for the Education of Young Ladies. Jefferson’s Last Will and Testimony had called for Gold to care for the girl, and to his sensible mind, such an institution seemed to be the most suitable situation for her to go to. It would set her on a good path for life, as well as release him from any further obligations Jefferson’s final request would otherwise honor-bind him to.

A nimble seven months passed, and Gold never painted out the late Jefferson’s name. There it stood, even so long afterwards, above the office door: Gold and Jefferson: Property Management. The firm was known as Jefferson and Gold. Sometimes people new to the business called it Gold, and sometimes Jefferson, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

In the town of Storybrooke, the name Mr. Gold was infamous. He was a particularly singular person; a silent knife in the dark; a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone. He was an intense, squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, and covetous, old sinner. Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out his inner fire; secret, and self-contained, and as solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips. When he spoke, it was with an accented, deadly-whisper of a voice; an air of warning and dread hung about him, like that one feels when approaching a coiled snake. It permeated from his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin.

External heat and cold had little influence on him. No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect: they often “came down” handsomely, and Gold never did. Were he of a different disposition, a different sort of heart, or was altogether a different sort of man, one could have called his features distinguished or even attractive. But Gold, with ice in his heart and frost in his cruel, determined eyes, could not be described as such.

When he made his long walk to work in the morning, nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, cheerfully, “My dear Gold, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow even a crumb to them, no children asked him the time, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired directions to such and such a place. Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No eye at all is better than the evil eye of that dark master!”

But what did Gold care? It was the very thing he liked. Though he walked with a limp and endured the assistance of a cane, he held his head high and kept his keen eyes forward; seeing only the next profit to be gained, just ahead, with an air of detachment. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance; such was his way.

For a time.

Once upon a time—of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve—the very Mr. Gold sat busy in his office. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: and he could hear the people in the court outside, going up and down, beating their hands together, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm their toes. The city clocks had only just struck three, but it was quite dark already—it had not been light all day for the overcast clouds, heavy with snow—and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighboring offices. Fog came pouring in from every keyhole, and was so dense that although his alleyway was of the narrowest, the houses opposite to him seemed to be mere phantoms.

The door of Gold’s office was open so that he might keep his eye upon his young clerk, who in a dismal little room beyond, was copying letters. Gold, himself, kept a very small fire in his office, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like it burned with a single lump of coal. But the clerk couldn’t replenish it, for Gold kept the coal-box in his own room; and heaven help the poor young man to ask for more. And so, the clerk simply put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself with a candle. However, his effort was in vain, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed to ward off the winter chill.

“Mr. Gold!” cried a cheerful voice bursting through the front door like a sudden ray of sunshine. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold! God bless you, sir!”

At the sound of the voice, Gold’s young clerk quickly hid a smile behind his hand, while the older man visibly stiffened at his desk. The voice was that of Gold’s maid of the past five months, Miss Belle French; she cleaned the office twice a week, and Gold’s personal residence once at the end of every month. She was a strange young woman of fair completion, rosy-cheeked, and adorned with wild, curly chestnut hair. She wore an out-of-fashion blue garb, and a worn crimson shawl to ward off the winter’s icy wind. However, these rags did little to hide her beauty. It shined bright and youthful from her blue eyes, straight from her very soul.

“Miss French,” Gold said sharply, determinedly keeping his eyes to his work. “Be silent. That will be enough nonsense.”

The young lady had so heated herself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, that she was all in a glow, though, admittedly, his remark had dampened her energy for a moment. But she was not deterred long; her eyes sparkled, and her breath smoked again.

“Christmas… nonsense?” she responded as she emptied his garbage bins and began to dust his cabinets. “You don’t mean that, I’m sure?”

“I do,” said Gold, his voice curt and annoyed. “’Merry Christmas’… What right have you to be merry, dearie? For that matter, what reason do you even have to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

“Well,” returned the girl, gaily. “Then what right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.”

In the other room, his young clerk coughed to cover up the laugh burbling in his throat. Gold, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, only glared in the maid’s direction.

“Oh, come now,” she said with a grin, abandoning her work to lean casually against his desk. “Don’t be cross with me, Mr. Gold.”  
  
Wearily, he looked up at her; for a moment, it seemed as though her sunny smile would break through his cold stare and icy walls. Mr. Gold regarded her as an odd thing; a little too bright and a little too optimistic for her station in life. Why she chose to work for him, and seem happy to do so, he couldn’t guess, but he tried not to let his thoughts remain on these questions for long.

Her mass of curls hung, like a curtain, about her face as she looked down upon him, and the grim man’s eyes lingered on their mesmerizing patterns. But in a blink of an eye, the moment passed, and he turned his head back down to his numbers.

“What else can I be, dearie,” said he. “When I live in such a world of fools as this? ‘Merry Christmas,’ you say? What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer… a time for balancing your books and having every item in ’em measured and weighed repeatedly… marking only that you have a dozen months presented dead against you?”

She sat back a little, her smile dropping.

“If I could work my will,” Gold continued, tilting his head and lifting his eyes to meet hers once again, a toothy, cruel smile upon his lips, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”

“S-sir…” pleaded the girl.

“Merely a quip, Miss French,” returned the older man with a sigh. “As I said before, that is enough. Go about your work; keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”

“Yes sir,” she replied, her voice dropping to quiet and dull tones.

“Let me alone, then,” said Gold. It was meant as a dismissal, but the girl stayed put. To his surprise and alarm, she set down her bags and duster to the ground, and reached out to touch his arm. Her pale, gentle hand could barely be felt through the layers of his coat jacket. Truly, it was a small thing, but the gesture shook him. With a faint smile, she took in a breath of air, as one does when gathering courage.

“Mr. Gold,” she began. “I believe that there are many things from which I have derived good, but has brought me no profit.” Her eyes were cast downward as she spoke this, and it left the older man’s heart to wonder.  
  
“Christmastime,” she continued, returning her warm eyes to him. “Is of that sort of goodness; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by their own consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below their station as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on their own foreign journeys. For me, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

The clerk in the opposite room involuntarily applauded, but with one dark look from Gold, became immediately sensible of the impropriety. The poor man awkwardly fidgeted, and hurriedly returned to his books of sums.

“Another sound from you, Mr. Nolan,” Gold called out to his clerk, “and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation!”

“Yes sir! Sorry sir!” replied the young man, his voice anxious to please.

“You’re quite the powerful speaker, dearie,” Gold added sarcastically, turning back to girl. “You'd be a wonder to go into politics…”

“Don’t be cross with me, Mr. Gold,” she said gently, squeezing his arm and stilling him once more. “You’re quite prone to thinking ill of those who would wish to do you good, you know.”

Gold merely stared at her intently, saying nothing. The girl released his arm under his gaze, as if overcome with a sudden bout of shyness.

“Now, I… that is… I wished to ask you,” she said, her words tumbling out so quickly they were nearly unintelligible. “Would you dine with me to-morrow?”

Gold balked at the proposition, opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Vaguely, he heard his clerk go into a sort of coughing fit, but he could not be bothered. The girl’s eyes searched his own, a charming blush growing like roses upon her suddenly agitated face.

“W-why…?” the old man said roughly, his Scottish brogue becoming increasingly more prominent.

“Well… why not?” she replied, a small, coy smile blooming upon her lips. “It would be nice to share Christmas with a… w-with a friend.”

“With a _friend_?” said Gold with a laugh that sounded more like a rebuke. “I’m both your employer and your landlord, dearie. I am no one’s friend.”

“Surely… that is…” she faltered. “B-but, I…”

“Enough,” growled Gold, as if this were the only thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. “You speak nonsense, and as I have previously implied, I have no wish to converse nonsensically. Good afternoon.”

“Don’t say that!” she cried. “What reason do you have for not coming?”

“Good afternoon,” said Gold.

“I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?”

“Good afternoon,” said Gold.

“I… I am sorry, sir,” she said, her voice sounding hurt and defensive. “I am sorry with all my heart, to find you so resolute in your ideas of friendship. B-but… we have never had any quarrel, a-at least, not a real one! I have always…”  
  
Gold had turned back to his books and seemed to be paying her no mind, as if she were no longer in the room. She paused, unsure of her words. Then she took in a deep breath and grabbed her things.  
  
“Well, the offer remains, sir,” she said at length, her smile suddenly returning as bright and pure as ever. “You know my residence. The goose shall remain on the spit until I see you, and I’ll keep my Christmas humor to the last! So-- a Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold!”

“Good afternoon!” said Gold.

“And a Happy New Year!”

“Good afternoon!” insisted Gold.

The girl left the room with her things, without an angry word. She stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was far warmer than Mr. Gold; for he returned them cordially.

“By the gods… I’m surrounded by fools,” muttered the older man to himself: “My clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas with that impossible girl... I’ll retire in an asylum for sure...”

His oblivious clerk, in letting the girl out, had let two other people in. One was a tall gentleman, the other a lady dressed in a garb that labeled her as a nun. Both were rather pleasant-looking, though the man’s ginger head was decidedly thin of hair, and they both now stood, in Gold’s office. They had books and papers in their hands, and each gave a gentle head nod and slight bow as they approached.

“Gold and Jefferson’s, I believe,” said the gentlemen, referring to his list. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Gold, or Mr. Jefferson?”

“Mr. Jefferson has been dead these seven months,” Gold replied blankly, enjoying the sudden look of flustered embarrassment the tall stranger had at this news.  
  
“O-oh,” he quickly replied. “E-excuse me, Mr. Gold, I was unaware. Our condolences, sir.”

Mr. Gold responded to this with a strange, sarcastic smile, but gave no reply. He was quite annoyed with their sudden intrusion and took pleasure from watching the gentleman squirm under his scrutiny. However, the nun seemed impatient and interrupted the awkward moment by clearing her throat.

“Mr. Gold,” began the woman, taking up a pen, “My name is Sister Ghorm and this is Mr. Hopper. We’re members of the Storybrooke Neighborhood Charitable Society. At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at this present time. Hundreds, in our city alone, are in want of common comforts.”

“Tell me, sister, are there no more prisons?” interrupted Gold.

“What?” replied the nun in confusion. “Oh. Well, yes. There are plenty of prisons.”

“And the workhouses?” continued Gold, in bored tones. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are,” returned the nun, briskly. “I wish I could say they were not.”

“How confusing! You see I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Gold with a cruel smile. “I’m very glad to hear nothing is amiss.”

The nun blinked, uncertain of how to continue.

“Ah, well, sir,” said Mr. Hopper, stepping in. “A few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth this Christmas. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and there is joy in abundance.”  
  
Mr. Gold stared at the gentleman, who stared back with a nervous, but genuine smile.

“So… erm, what might we put you down for in terms of donation?” the gentleman asked, uncertainly.

“Nothing,” Gold replied, his tone annoyed.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish to be left alone,” returned Gold. “I find Christmastime trivial and I have no wish to make... _idle_ people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned—they cost me more than enough; and those who are badly off must go there.”

“B-but!” sputtered the gentleman. “M-many can’t go there; and others who could would rather die!”

“Well then,” replied Gold slowly, as if speaking to a child. “If they would rather die they may as well go about and do it. It is none of my business or concern. If anything, the desperation of such individuals means better business for me.”

The nun, gasped, and held her palm to her chest, while the Mr. Hopper appeared flabbergasted.

“How can you say such a thing?” the nun said, stepping forward to touch her hand to his desk. “I-it is our God-ordained responsibility as human beings, to take care of one another. Those with power, like yourself, even more so!”

“And who made that suggestion, dearie?” Gold returned. “From how I see it, it’s enough for a man to understand his own business. Mine occupies me constantly. Now if you have nothing further to say, I suggest you leave and let me return to my work.”

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the two withdrew, their expressions reflecting their eagerness to leave the man’s presence. Gold resumed his labors with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more humored temper than was usual with him. As the two slammed the door to his establishment, he let out a dark chuckle, making his clerk more nervous.

Meanwhile, the fog and darkness outside thickened. The cold became more intense and snow began to fall. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some laborers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The lamps were being lit, and each shopkeeper began to put up their festive holly in their windows. The streets glowed with colors of orange and red against the snow; laughter could be heard from those approaching the end of the workday. Christmas Eve was upon them.

A small group of youths, having left their stations early, were going keyhole to keyhole regaling hymns of Christmas cheer. One such youth approached Gold’s door to sing a carol, but at the first sound of:

_“God bless you, merry gentleman! May nothing you dismay!”_

Gold seized his cane, and darted to the front entrance. He opened his front door with such energy of action, and with his cane aloft, that the singer fell backwards and scrambled away in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog. Gold, assured that the youth would not return, slammed his door shut with satisfaction.

At length, the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will, Gold dismounted from his stool, and wordlessly alerted closing-time to his clerk, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.

“You’ll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?” said Gold with a sneer.

“If it's convenient, sir,” replied the young Mr. Nolan.

“It’s not convenient,” returned Gold, “And if I was to pay you nothing for it, you’d think yourself ill-used, wouldn’t you?”

The clerk said nothing, unsure of how to answer.

“And yet,” Gold mused with a  sarcastic chuckle. “You don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work... is that right?”

“I-it is only one time a year, sir,” the clerk supplied, calmly.

“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” returned Mr. Gold, pulling on his great-coat. “But, as I seem to be the only employer who understands this… I suppose you must have the whole day. Very well. Be here all the earlier next morning, Nolan.”

The clerk promised that he would; and Gold walked out without a word of goodbye. As soon as he departed, the office was closed in a twinkling; the clerk smiling and flying to make all ready. With the long ends of his white coat dangling below his waist, the young clerk locked and left the dark office for home. His youthful, handsome face was set alight by the twinkling of the stars and the lamplights reflecting off the snow.

At the end of the lane, a group of boys were sledding and sliding down a great hill. With a laugh, Mr. Nolan joined them; sliding down twenty times, in honor of it being Christmas Eve, and then ran home as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s-buff with his own children. The boys hooted and shouted at the strange grown-up child; chasing after him all the way home.

Meanwhile, Gold took his silent, melancholy dinner in his usual silent, melancholy tavern; a place run by an elderly widow and her promiscuous daughter. Normally an establishment with such disreputable owners would be avoided by polite society, but because this meant solitude, Gold preferred it to all others.

Having read all the newspapers, he beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s-book. His associate, Mr. Dove, joined him at his table after an hour or two. Traditionally, this would be the time for Gold to inform the larger man which of his tenants had not been paying their dues and Dove would, then, take this information to go “persuade” these individuals to make their payments. If they could not, Dove was responsible for help in their eviction. These meetings between Dove and Gold, were among his favorite moments in the day; a time of plotting and satisfaction.

However, much to Gold’s irritation, Mr. Dove had joined him to request the whole of Christmas Day off, much like his soft-hearted clerk had earlier.

“The world is full of fools,” Gold muttered in annoyance at this request. “Though I did not expect you to be one of them, my dear Mr. Dove.”

Dove, being a man of few words, said nothing, but waited in patience.

“Very well,” Gold continued, through gritted teeth. “Take the day and be off wi’ thee.”

Dove murmured some low-toned thanks, and departed, leaving his exasperated employer to finish his dinner.

When this was finished, Mr. Gold grabbed his cane and made his way home for bed. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, almost like the solemn, shadowy chambers of a castle, where few had business to be. It was old and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Gold; the other rooms were filled with objects and valuables collected from debtors, but that had no personal use. The outer yard of the house was so dark that even Gold, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands and tap with his cane.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on his door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Gold had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place.

Let it also be noted that Gold had barely bestowed one thought on Jefferson, since his last mention of his seven months’ dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Gold, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker, but Jefferson’s face.

Jefferson’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it.  It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Gold as Jefferson used to look: with a ghostly top hat turned up on its ghostly forehead. Its wild hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid color, made it frightening; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control. Its blank expression slowly morphed into what had once been Jefferson’s typical, slightly-off grin. 

As Gold looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled would be untrue, though you would not have been able to tell from his grim expression. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expecting to be terrified with the sight of Jefferson’s coat-tails sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except for the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he hummed with displeasure and closed it with a bang.

The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine- cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. However, Gold was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: trimming his candle as he went.

Up Gold went, not caring a button for the lack of light upon the staircase. Darkness was comforting, cheap, and secretive; Gold liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection and fear of the face to desire to do that.

Sitting-room, bedroom, and all the assorted, crowded spare-rooms. All as they should be. Nobody under the tables, nobody under the sofas; a small fire in the grate; spoon and dish ready; and the little kettle of tea upon the hob. Nobody under his bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his robes, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, spinning-wheel, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was his custom. Thus, secured against surprise, he took off his cravat and outer coat, unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves; removed his working shoes and donned slippers, and sat down before the fire to take his tea.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing for such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh’s daughters; Abrahams, Apostles, and hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Jefferson, seven months dead, was all Mr. Gold could see. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, in Gold’s mind, there seemed to be a copy of Jefferson’s head on every one.

“Enough of this!” said Gold; and, taking his cane, walked across the room, agitated.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell; a disused servant’s bell that he had never noticed, that hung in the room, and had once communicated some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building.

It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.

This might have lasted half a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-cellar. Then, the cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

Reaching for the night-stand beside his chair, Gold pulled open a drawer and retrieved a pistol that he kept stashed there. Raising it and aiming towards the cellar-door, the grim man’s expression turned from strange calm, to anger, and then to fear.

“What is this...?” he growled. “Come forward, now!”

His color changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Brows furrowed in angry confusion, eyes wide with disbelief, Gold dropped his pistol and stumbled backwards.

“Ghost,” he whispered in astonishment.

“Afraid so,” the spirit returned with an unnerving air of normality.


	2. Jefferson's Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \-----  
> Hard-hearted and bitter, Mr. Gold, is given a chance for redemption when he is haunted by three ghosts on Christmas Eve.  
> \-----

The same face: the very same. Jefferson with his long, wild hair, his unusual waistcoat, his boots; his signature, felt top-hat, and his long coat-tails. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made of keys, deeds, and heavy padlocks wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Gold, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the door to the room behind.

Gold was breathing hard. He could scarcely believe it, even now. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses.

“Who are you?” said Gold, caustic and cold as ever. “What do you want with me?”

“Much, actually.”—Jefferson’s voice, no doubt about it. His ghostly form leaned against the fireplace mantle, almost casually.

“Who are you?!”

“No, no, no. That’s not right. Ask me who I was.”

“Fine. Who _were_ you then?” said Gold, raising his voice, irritably.

“In life I was your partner, Jefferson Hatter.”

“Really?” asked Gold in a sarcastic tone, looking doubtfully at him. “Can you—can you sit down?”

“I can.”

“Do it, then.”

“Alright.”

Gold had asked the question, because he didn’t know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it.

“You don’t believe in me,” observed the Ghost.

“And just what gave you that impression, dearie?” said Gold his tone sarcastic, once more. “Of course, I don’t.”

“Typical,” replied the Ghost, a hint of a joke lacing his voice and a slight curl in his lips. “What evidence do you require of my reality beyond that of your senses?”

“I don’t know,” said Gold.

“Then why do you doubt your senses?”

“Because,” said Gold angrily. “A little thing can affect them. A slight illness of the stomach can lead your mind and senses astray! You may be an undigested bit of beef, a crumb of cheese, or a fragment of an underdone potato! There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, w-whatever you are!”

Gold was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, and when he did they were usually in poor taste, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means witty then. The pun was weak at best. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his own inward terror; for the specter’s voice had him disturbed to the very marrow of his bones.

To sit, staring at those fixed glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would surely rip the remaining courage out of his heart. Gold knew the truth; he was a coward of a man, and to be faced with something he was powerless against, was more than he could bear. The Ghost of Jefferson was sitting before him morbidly; his death had been brought upon by the sharp wheels of a runaway carriage, and the bandage from his fatal wounds were still wrapped about his neck. There was something very awful, too, in the specter’s being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own. Gold could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair and coat-tails, were still agitated as by some unknowable wind.

“You see this toothpick?” inquired Gold, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision’s stony gaze from himself.

“I do,” replied the Ghost, sounding intrigued.

“You’re not looking at it,” argued Gold.

“But I see it,” said the Ghost, “notwithstanding.”

“Well!” returned Gold, worried by the comment. “I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. So, this is nothing more than a hallucination; a delusion!”

At this the spirit raised a frightful laugh, which shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Gold held on tight to his chair, out of fear. But how much greater was his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage round its neck, as if it were too warm to wear indoors, its head dropped down upon its lap!

Trembling, Gold collapsed to his knees, and clasped his hands before his face, his cowardice revealing itself at last.

“Mercy!” he cried out. “Dreadful apparition! W-why do you trouble me?!”

“Goblins and pins!” replied the Ghost, still half-laughing, half-mocking. “So, do you believe in me or not?”

“I do!” cried Gold. “I must! But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?”

“It is required of every man,” the Ghost returned, replacing its head upon its neck and reclining in its chair. “The spirit within him should walk side-by-side his fellowmen; and if that spirit goes not forth with them in life, it is condemned to do so after death.”

Gold looked up and saw the Ghost of Jefferson’s expression fall from his manic smile to that of the most melancholy and morose, it’s eyes wide with horror.

“It is doomed to wander through the world,” continued the Specter. “And witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!”

The specter raised a cry, and once again, its chains shook as it wrung its shadowy hands.

“You are restrained,” observed Gold, shuddering. “Why?”

“I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost with a grimace, and his voice shook with a terrible amount of self-hatred. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you? Not exactly my style?”

Gold trembled more and more.

“Or would you like to know,” pursued the Ghost, “the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven months ago. You have labored on it, since, my dear Gold.”

Mr. Gold glanced about himself on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing.

“Jefferson,” he said, imploringly. “My dear Jefferson, what do you mean?! Did you come to torment me with the knowledge of my own damnation? Or have you come to give me comfort?”

“I have much to say but little comfort to give,” the Ghost replied. “Such a thing would not come from me, Rumford Gold. Nor can I truly tell you everything that I would about the afterlife. A very little more is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our offices… enchanted by riches, half-mad by the power we could wield over man—mark me!—in life my spirit never wanted to go beyond the narrow limits of our money-grabbing, life-taking hole; and yet now a weary journey lies before me! A long road I must complete before I can finally find rest!”

It was a habit with Gold, whenever he became thoughtful or agitated, that his hands would twitch and flutter, unable to settle; this trait he had acquired from days long past. Pondering on what the Ghost had said, his hands ran up and down his legs in agitation, but he did this unconsciously, without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his knees.

“Y-you must have been very slow about it, Jefferson,” Gold observed, nervously.

“Slow?!” the Ghost repeated.

“Seven months dead,” mused Gold. “And travelling all the time?”

“The whole time,” said the Ghost, in an annoyed, clipped tone. “No rest. No peace. Incessant torture of regret.”

“You travel fast?” Gold quipped.

The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, dragging its hair with its hands in frustration and standing up from its seat. Its chains clanked so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the policeman would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance.

“Enough, Gold! You are wasting time! You are a fool! Captive, bound, and double-ironed!” cried the phantom, reaching down, grabbing Gold by his long, greying hair, and forcing him to look into his hollow, crazed eyes. “Not to know, that ages of incessant labor are crafted by immortal creatures! Not to know that there is no space where regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused! Yet I know, Gold! Oh! I know!”

The Spirit’s expression contorted into one of pain; as one crying, but without the means to cry, for no tears fell from its eyes.

“B-but you were always a good man,” faltered Gold. “Or… at least… you were not a bad one!”

“Not a bad one!” cried the Ghost, with dark laugh. “I allowed countless to suffer while I profited. I watched my fellow man carefully, like a hunter, looking for weakness. I stole from the innocent for my own pleasure. I used the desperation of the poor for my own gain. You say I was a good man? I believe you mean I was a good man of business. And Mankind _was_ my business!”

Releasing Gold, the Ghost looked away, its anger diminishing and its melancholy returning.

“The common welfare should have been my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, supposed to be my business. In the end, I was nothing more than a murderous thief! I had the power to ease the suffering of those beneath me, and yet, I did nothing. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of what my business was meant to be!”

At this, the Ghost held up its chain at arm’s length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again.

“At this time of year,” the specter said, “I suffer the most, for I see so much, my friend! Why did I walk through crowds of my fellow-beings with my eyes turned away? Why did I not hear them when they called out to me?”  
  
“B-but,” Gold inquired, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Y-your daughter…”

“My daughter,” the Ghost replied with a moan. “She called out to me the most… she calls out to me still, but I—I cannot even see, nor find her, nor remember her face!”

Gold was very much dismayed to hear the specter going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly.

“Listen now! Now you must listen!” cried the Ghost. “My time is nearly gone!”

“W-what?” said Gold. “Wait! You’ve told me nothing! Why are you here before me tonight?”

“How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I cannot tell, old friend. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day, hoping to speak with you thusly.”

This was not an agreeable idea. Gold cast his gaze to the ground once more, and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

“This is no light part of my atonement,” pursued the Ghost. “I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping your fate; a fate worse than my own—for mine has an end. A chance and hope that I fought to get for you, Rumford.”

“For me?” replied Gold, hardly able to comprehend the specter’s words. “J-Jefferson… you—you have truly been my only friend. Bless you, lad!”

“You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost, “by Three Spirits.”

Gold’s countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost’s had done when its head had rolled off.

“Is… uh… that the chance and hope you mentioned?” he demanded, in a faltering voice.

“It is.”

“I—I think I’d rather not,” said Gold plainly.

“Without their visits,” said the Ghost, “you cannot hope to shun your long path. Expect the first when the bell tolls One.”

“Couldn’t I bloody take ’em all at once, and have it over with?!” exclaimed Gold.

“Expect the second when the bell tolls Two. The third upon when the last stroke of Midnight has ceased to vibrate.”

“Come now, Jefferson,” Gold replied, feeling dread and exasperation all at once. “That makes no sense! How can it go from Two to Midnight?!”

“Look to see me no more after this,” replied the Ghost, ignoring his comment. “I doubt I shall ever been seen by the living again… though I should have liked to see Grace’s face one last time. My dear Gold, for your sake and mine, you must remember what has passed between us.”

Gold ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor standing before him, with its chain wound over and about its arm. The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the parlor room window raised itself a little, so that when the specter reached it, it was wide open.

It beckoned Gold to approach, which he did, with difficulty. When they were within two paces of each other, Jefferson’s Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Gold stopped, not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air. Incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory cries. The specter, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and disappeared into the bleak, dark night, crying, “Grace! Grace!”

Gold followed to the window: hesitant, but curious. He looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering in restless haste. Every one of them wore chains like Jefferson’s Ghost; some few were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Gold in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a sickly woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power to do so forever.

Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home.

Gold closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed.

He tried to speak but stopped at the first syllable; unable to express aloud how he felt. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.


	3. The Ghost of Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \-----  
> Hard-hearted and bitter, Mr. Gold, is given a chance for redemption when he is haunted by three ghosts on Christmas Eve.  
> \-----

When Mr. Gold awoke again, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the dense walls of his chamber. He was trying, in vain, to pierce the darkness with his eyes, when the chimes of a neighboring church began to ring out the time. Nervously, he listened for the hour.

To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and all the way up to twelve; then stopped. Twelve? It was past two when he went to bed. The clock was wrong. Yet, his own bedside clock struck the hour beside him; it too rang out the hour of twelve.

“This… is impossible,” said Gold to himself, “Have I... have I slept through a whole day and into another night…?”

The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped his way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his shirt before he could see anything; and even then, he could see very little. All he could make out was, that it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and fro. It was, indeed, the dead of night.

He went to bed again, and thought it over and over and over, but could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the less he understood; and the more he endeavored not to think, the more he thought.

Jefferson’s Ghost bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, “ _Was it a dream or not_?”

Gold lay in this state until the chime had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, suddenly, that Jefferson's Ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. He resolved to lie awake until the hour was passed; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power.

“The hour itself,” pleaded Gold, aloud, “and nothing else…”

He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn.

The curtains of his bed were drawn aside by a hand. Not the curtains at his feet, but those beside his face. The curtains were drawn aside; and Gold, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them.

The figure did not stand, but hovered two feet from the floor; like Jefferson, its hair and clothes were gently blowing in an otherworldly wind. It glowed with an almost heavenly light.

It was a strange figure—like a child or a youth: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium. It appeared masculine, with shaggy, blonde hair which hung about its neck; its face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on its skin.

Its arms were very long and lightly muscled; the hands the same, though the rest of its body was decidedly lean. Its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic green; and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It had a branch of fresh green holly behind it’s ears; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, the holly was blooming with spring flowers. Its intense eyes stared with a quality that Gold instantly felt familiar.

Even this, though, when Gold observed it with increasing steadiness, was not its strangest quality. It's changeability was the most odd. Its belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: and then, in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever. It was hard to pin-point exactly what this being looked like, and yet Gold found it had a face he recognized, though he had never seen it before.

“Are… are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Gold.

“I am.”

The voice was aloof, at best. Singularly youthful but fainter than expected, as if instead of being so close beside him, it was at some distance.

“Who or… what are you?” Gold demanded.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Long Past?” inquired Gold: quipping at its dwarfish stature.

“No. Your past.”

If anyone could have asked him, Gold would not have been able to give a reason as to why; but upon hearing the Spirit’s response, he had a sudden, desperate desire to see the Spirit covered and hidden.

“What?!” exclaimed the Ghost with a haughty laugh, as if hearing his thoughts, “Would you so soon put me out, with your mortal hands, the light I give? As if you could!”

“F-forgive me,” said Gold, quickly. “May I ask, what business brings you here?”

“Your welfare,” said the Ghost in bored tones.

Gold expressed himself much obliged, but sarcastically thought that a night of unbroken rest would have done more for his welfare. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately:

“Fine. Your salvation then; come on!”

It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him impatiently on the shoulder.

“Come on, come on! Let’s see what kind of man you really are!”

The Spirit’s words clenched at Gold’s heart; like the Ghost’s face, they were familiar, but he could not remember why. He rose at its beckoning: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, he pulled against the Spirit’s urging.

“Wait,” Gold protested, “I am no spirit, like you! I am mortal—I cannot fly, I’ll fall!”

The Spirit looked upon him with a look of cynicism; as if the statement was ridiculous.

“Touch of my hand then, boy,” said the Spirit, extending it towards the startled Gold, “For I fly and I shall keep you aloft.”

As the words were spoken and the hand taken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either side. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground. A small wood was to their left, beyond the fields, and a morning sun was before them.

Gold gasped aloud, his hands twitching nervously at his side, as he looked about him.

“This!” he breathed aloud. “I… this place… I was a boy here!”

The Spirit gazed upon him indifferently. Its touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the shaken man’s sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odors floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and fears, and cares long, long, forgotten. As though he had stepped out of one life, and entered another, one locked away from him but still ever-present.

“Your lip is trembling,” observed the Ghost.

“It’s nothing,” Gold remarked, his voice uncharacteristically catching. “I… it is nothing.”

“Do you remember the way?” inquired the Spirit.

“Remember it?” cried Gold with a sad smile; “I could walk it blindfolded…”

“Tsk. Strange then that you have forgotten it for so many years,” remarked the Ghost. “Let us go on.”

They walked along the dirt road, and Gold recognized every gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it!

“These are but shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost, suddenly. “They have no consciousness of us. You are free to walk among them.”

It was at that moment that Gold noticed, for the first time, that he had been walking without his cane and without his leg aching. The shock of this was muted by his surroundings, and he dismissed it as the work of the Spirit who was hovering beside him; his hand lightly touching his shoulder.

The young travelers came on; and as they came, Gold knew and named every one of them. In his heart, he felt a fierce, cruel flood of joy to see them. Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went past? Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and byways, for their homes? What was merry Christmas to him? What good had it ever done to him—what good had it ever done to _them_?

Gold knew what fate lay before them. In just a few years they would become young men, bright and full of courage. Then the war would come and they would be gone; only he would remain.

“The school is not quite deserted,” said the Ghost, drawing him out of his thoughts. “A solitary child, neglected by his friends, has been left behind.”

“I know,” he whispered, holding back the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes.

They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon approached a building of dull red brick, with a little mounted dome, on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Chickens clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were over-run with grass. When entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthy smell in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with getting up by candle-light, and not having enough to eat.

Mr. Gold and the Ghost went in across the hall, to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain desks. At one of these a lonely boy of about seven was reading near a feeble fire.

Gold approached the boy, who appeared small for his age and clearly underfed. He sat before the boy; his mouth forming a grim line to see his poor forgotten self as he used to be.

Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the paneling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house door, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Gold with a softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his sadness.

The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to the book his younger self was intently reading. There was an illustration of a man, in foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: that had his younger self captivated.

“It’s Aladdin!” Gold exclaimed, suddenly in ecstasy. “I know him! I would read about his adventures for hours! I remember! And then there’s… oh, what’s his name? The one who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Agrabah; I can see him in my mind! And the Sultan’s Groom turned upside down by the Genii! Serves him right. I’m glad of it. What business had he to be married to the Princess?!”

To hear Gold expending all the earnestness of his nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a shocking surprise to his business friends in the city. The Spirit watched him without comment, however.

Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, Gold’s voice hitched. He looked upon his formal self and said so quietly that only the Spirit could hear, “Poor boy…” Then, he hunched over and began to weep.

“I wish,” he muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: “but it’s too late now.”

“What is?” asked the Spirit.

“Nothing,” replied Gold. “Nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night… I should like to have given him something: that’s all.”

“Strange for you to say,” the Ghost remarked. “Do you feel regret only now that you remember what tragic youth is like? Pity. Though comfort yourself knowing that perhaps that lad is better off than you were, perhaps; though it is hard for me to say. It's impossible to see the future in a place where time stands still.”

“You may not see the future here, but I can make one up,” Gold returned, sadly. His mind suddenly turned to Jefferson’s young daughter, who he had sent away to such an institution. She could not have been much older than the boy before them. He turned to look upon the lad once more.

His former self was not reading now, and it seemed that time had skipped ahead a few years. He was now a lad of about ten, walking up and down despairingly. Gold looked at the Ghost, before glancing anxiously towards the door.

It opened; and two elderly women entered. “Rum! Our dear, dear boy!” they called out. And at their voices, the scrawny child ran towards their arms and buried his face in their billowing skirts.

“Auntie Elspeth! Auntie Arabel!” he cried. “Why are you here?”

“We have come to take you home, love!” said Auntie Elspeth in a teasing voice, bending down to hug him and laugh. “To bring you home, home, home!”

“Home?” returned the boy.

“Yes,” said Auntie Arabel, curtly; though her tone could hardly disguise her happiness. “Home, for good and all; home, for ever and ever.”

“And Father?”

The women’s smiles faltered, and their eyes glistened. They bent down, till their faces were level with his own. The boy saw their expressions, and stiffened.

“Oh, child,” said Auntie Elspeth. “Your Father has… he has…”

“He’s gone,” the child replied, his voice wavering. “And… he isn’t coming back, is he?”

“No. He is not,” said Auntie Arabel with grim certainty. “But, dearie, this is for the best. Your Father… well, it’s neither here nor there. What matters is you’ll come and live with us now, and never be left alone again.”

“Really?” the boy replied, hesitantly hopeful.

“Really,” said Auntie Elspeth. “And you are never to come back here—we’re going to teach you an honest trade instead; but first, we’re to be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world.”

The small boy said nothing, but began to cry from happiness and was embraced by his Aunties once more. Auntie Arabel brusquely brushed back her own tears, with an air of sensibility, and attempted to shush the boy, but it was all for not, and they all cried tears of bittersweet joy.

A terrible voice in the hall interrupted them, calling out suddenly, “Bring down Master Rumford’s box, there!” and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on the boy with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. He then took him and his aunts into his crumbling office, where there were maps upon the wall, and celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows.

Here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered instalments of those dainties to the aunts: at the same time, sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of “something” to the post boy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he had rather not.

By this time, the boy’s trunk had been tied on to the top of the chaise, he politely bade the schoolmaster good-bye; and getting into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep: the quick wheels dashing frost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray; his aunts settling him between them and covering him with a woven blanket.

“Strong but delicate creatures, your aunts,” observed the Ghost. “Not many would take an unwanted child in. They had big hearts.”

“Indeed, they did,” wept Gold.

“They truly loved you, you know,” continued the Spirit. “Neither were they ready to pass on from you when they died. You made their final years the happiest they ever knew.”

“Enough!” snapped Gold, angry and weeping. “I've carried enough lies in my life to recognize their burden!”

“I do not lie,” said the Ghost with a sniff of offence. “What reason do I have to lie? True, they were old, and it was difficult for them to raise a boy your age, but you are not the cause of their death. Age and wear took them to the grave. All you did was help them prepare for it, by allowing them to pass their knowledge onto you. And they did, didn’t they?”

Gold seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, “Yes... they taught me to spin.”

He did not have more time to linger on these thoughts, however, for the scene before them suddenly shifted and changed. Although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; shadowy carts and coaches battled for the way. All the strife and tumult of a real city surrounded them. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the street lights were being lit.

The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Gold if he knew it.

“Know it?” said Gold, astonished. “I… I was apprenticed here… before…” He waivered, not finishing his thought, but the Spirit did not press him.

They went in. A huge room filled with looms stretched before them, with at least five-and-twenty workers bustling about them. At the front was a podium and stool, whereupon a huge, meaty man sat upon and calculated numbers. At sight of this large, older gentleman, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Gold cried in great excitement:

“By the gods, Maurice?! It’s old Maurice Marchland—alive!”

Old Maurice laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, rich, jovial voice:

“Ho, there! Rumford! Gaston!”

Gold’s former self, now a scrappy and eager young man, came briskly to him, accompanied by his fellow apprentice; a muscular and handsome fellow, who looked comical alongside his short, lean companion.

“Lord! Gaston,” said Gold to the Ghost with a half-chuckle. “He was a good friend to me at the time, though I suspect it’s because I was always helping him. He was constantly getting tangled in the machines and certainly didn’t have the head for numbers; he wasn’t the brightest. Poor man. I wonder what ever became of him.”

“Ho there, my boys!” said Maurice with a smile. “No more work to-night! Tis’ Christmas Eve, Gaston! Christmas, Rumford! Let’s have the shutters up,” cried old Maurice, with a sharp clap of his hands.

You wouldn’t believe how those two fellows went at it! They charged into the street with the shutters—one, two, three—had ’em up in their places—four, five, six—barred ’em and pinned ’em—seven, eight, nine—and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses.

“That’s the spirit, boys!” cried Maurice, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. “Clear away, my lads, and let’s have lots of room here! Come on Richard! Thomas—enough work, now! Come now, help make space! Push back the looms and the spinning wheels, lads!”

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn’t have cleared away, or couldn’t have cleared away, with old Maurice looking on. It was done in a minute. Everything movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was transformed into a warm and bright ball-room. It was as beautiful as you would desire to see upon a festive winter’s night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and up he went to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it. In came the young Mrs. Marchland, with all the beauty and grace as a queen; bestowing one vast substantial smile upon all. Maurice, her husband looked upon her with joy and love, beaming and delighted by her presence. In came the six young followers whose hearts she broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with her brother’s handsome friend, the milkman. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some stylishly, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow.

Away they all went dancing, twenty couples at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old dancing couples always turning up in the wrong place; new couples starting off the dance again, as soon as they got there! When this result was brought about, old Maurice, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, “Well done!” and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a mug of beer, especially provided for that purpose. But scorning rest, upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet. The music and the sounds of laughter and merry-making seemed to blend together into one happy sound.

The youthful face of Rumford Gold, short-haired and shy, could be seen dancing inelegantly with a fair young lady of tall stature and dark hair. He danced with her twice before making a swift retreat to a stairwell; where he endured the teasing of Gaston with a laugh and took in the splendor of the party from the sidelines.

There were more dances, and there were games, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was drama, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast Beef, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled Chicken, and there were mince-pies, and more dances, and plenty of beer.

But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler struck up a particularly lively tune. It was then old Maurice stood out to dance with his wife! Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many—ah, four times—Maurice Marchland would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Marchland. He surprised all his employees, by dancing in the most vigorous and graceful way. As for his wife, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that’s not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it! A great cheer went out through the hall as they danced, and no one could have predicted, at any given time, what would have become of them next. Mr. and Mrs. Marchland had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place—when suddenly Maurice dipped back his partner so deftly, winked at the crowd, and then came back up upon his feet again without a stagger! The hoots and shouts of laughter that followed were deafening!

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Marchland, breathless and proud, took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wishing him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two apprentices, Rumford and Gaston, they did the same to them; and thus, the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop.

During the whole of this time, Gold had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Gaston were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear.

“A small matter,” said the Ghost, in an arrogant tone. “To make these silly folks so full of gratitude.”

“Small?!” echoed Gold.

The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Maurice and of the night that had befell them.

“It is small,” reiterated the Spirit with a laugh. “Is it not? He spent a grand total of a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?”

“It isn’t that,” said Gold, heated by the remark against his former master, and unconsciously speaking like his former self. “It isn’t about that at all! He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. His power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count ’em up. The happiness he gives us, whom he employs, is worth a fortune!”

Suddenly Gold thought on his treatment of his own clerk, Mr. Nolan, and felt a twinge of guilt, but made no remark of it. Instead, he quickly turned away from the Ghost and looked back upon the hopeful face of his younger self, who was turning down the lamps.

“My time grows short,” observed the Spirit. “Quick!”

This was not addressed to Gold or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again Gold saw himself; and shuddered at the sight.

“No…” he whispered to the Spirit. “Do not show me this!”

But the Ghost said nothing, and Gold had no choice but to look. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of pain, suffering, and avarice. There was an greedy, restless motion in the eye, and bitterness upon his lips. His leg, freshly twisted, was supported by a crutch rather than a cane; in his hands a bottle of gin, and he was counting his money-purse; his spoils from war.

He was not alone, but sat by the side of the beautiful, dark-haired girl from the happy Christmastime of Maurice’s party. She was dressed in a mourning-dress: her eyes were red-rimmed and full of tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“I am leaving,” she said, and her voice was cold.

“I am aware, madam,” replied he, taking a drink from his bottle.

“I suppose, it matters little,” she said, accusingly. “To you, very little, that I leave because another idol has displaced me.”

“What Idol has displaced you?” he rejoined.

“Greed. Your lust for power.”

“Would you rather me ignore my work and sit here day in and day out remembering only that my son is dead?!” he shouted, with bitterness and anger.

“ _Our_ son is dead,” she corrected. “And his father a coward!”

Suddenly, almost violently, he rose up in anger at her words. Taking a mere three steps backward from him, she watched him stagger; his injury was so fresh that he stumbled forward, to which she laughed in a cruel and hallow way: her heart was not in it.

“Do not call me a coward,” he seethed from his place on the ground.

“Why not?” she challenged. “It is the truth. You have lost your courage and your heart; I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrossed you. Have I not? It is greed that took you, and it is all that keeps you now. I warned you, you should not have joined the war to start—and then upon learning of my being with child, should not have left it!”

“What then?!” he retorted. “If you are so wise, dearie, tell me what might I have done to clear my name of my father’s stench? What might I have done to leave the lowly trade of spinning and become a man of title for our family’s advancement?”

“If you truly loved me, you would not have left me!” she all but screamed. “If this was truly about our family’s security and happiness, you would have been here for his birth and not left me alone to suffer and mourn!”

Snapping her mouth shut, she shook her head.

“Our contract is an old one,” she mused, her voice suddenly going soft and sad. “It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. But you are changed. When it was made, you were another man.”

“I was a boy,” he said impatiently. “War has shown me that.”

“You see? Your own feelings tell you that you are not what you were,” she returned. “But I am. I am not changed; I still want that life of love. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this! It is enough that I have thought of it, and can release you...”

“Have I ever sought release?”

“In words. No. Never.”

“In what, then?”

“In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us,” said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him; “tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now?”

He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in spite of himself. But he said with a struggle, “You think not.”

“I would gladly think otherwise if I could,” she answered.

“I know of your sea-faring lover,” he returned with a snap. “A sailor is surely a better life than a lame spinner, aye?”

“Better a life of love with a poor, brave man, than a life of misery with an ambitious, cowardly fool,” she returned. “Heaven knows! When I had realized the Truth of your nature, I remained, for years, still resigned to you. But all that changed when you left. Tell me, if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl? You who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your new guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were.”

She sighed heavily, as if having just unburdened herself of a great weight. “A man who would not have left; a man who cared little of more beyond this town; a man who would have not blamed me but grieved with me at the death of our newborn; a man who, if called to fight for beliefs rather than reputation, advancement, and power, would have fought and died bravely! I hope what you gained was worth the cost!”

He was about to speak; but with her head turned from him, she resumed.

“You may—the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will—have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke; for to you, the only grief is the loss of _your_ son, of that which was _yours_ , and not the loss of me. May you be happy in the life you have chosen!”

She left him, and they parted.

“Ghost or Spirit, whatever you are!” said Gold, trembling. “Show me no more! Take me home. You are torturing me!”

“One shadow more,” returned the Ghost.

“No more!” cried Gold. “No more. I don’t wish to see it. Show me no more!”

But the relentless Ghost restrained him in both his arms, and forced him to observe what happened next.

They were in another scene and place; a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like that last that Gold believed it was the same, until he saw her, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter. The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children there than Gold in his agitated state of mind could count; but perhaps, around five, laughing and shouting. The consequences were uproarious beyond belief; but no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily, and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginning to mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the younger brigands most ruthlessly.

They stole the young girl’s shoe and with a cry, raced about the room with it; while the former tried to catch them. The mother looked upon them with laughter, calling out for this one or another to hide behind her or to go another way to avoid capture.

But now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush immediately ensued that she with smiling face and plundered dress was borne towards it the center of a flushed and boisterous group, just in time to greet the father, who came home attended by a man laden with Christmas toys and presents. Then the shouting and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenseless porter! The scaling him with chairs for ladders to dive into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his cravat, hug him round his neck, pommel his back, and kick his legs in irrepressible affection! The shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received! The chaos, and gratitude, and ecstasy! They are all indescribable alike. It is enough that by degrees the children and their emotions got out of the parlor, and by one stair at a time, up to the top of the house; where they went to bed, and so subsided.

And now Gold looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, bent lower so that the lovely daughter could kiss his cheek goodnight; he then went to sit with her mother at his own fireside. Gold began to think on how such another creature, graceful and as full of promise, might have called him father, and been a spring-time in the bitter autumn of his life, wrenched his heart. He realized in that moment something he had never understood about himself before; he had longed for fatherhood all his life, in order to atone for the loss of his son, and to redeem the abandonment of his own parentage.

“Milah,” said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile, “I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon.”

“An old friend?” she asked, suspiciously upon hearing the teasing notes in her husband’s voice. “Who was it?”

“Guess!”

“How can I? Goodness, I don’t know?” she added in the same breath, laughing as he laughed.

“Mr. Gold,” replied the husband, taking her hand and kissing it gently. “I passed his office window; and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. His partner lies upon the point of death, I hear; and there he sat alone. Quite alone in the world, I do believe, poor man.”

“Hm?” returned the wife, not entirely listening to him, and focusing more on his attentions at her soft, feminine hand.

“Spirit!” said Goldin a broken voice, “Remove me from this place, I beg you!”

“I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost. “They are what they are; I am not to blame.”

“Remove me!” Gold exclaimed once more. “I cannot bear it!”

He turned upon the Ghost, who looked upon him with a face he suddenly recognized. With a mixture of dark surprise and dread, he realized in an instant that the arrogant, youthful face of the Ghost was that of his Father as he was in youth; a face he had never seen but whose influence had dominated his entire life.

“Leave me alone!” he cried again. “Take me back, and haunt me no longer!”

In the struggle, if it can be called a struggle, the Ghost showed no visible resistance on its own part and was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Gold observed that its light was burning high and bright, and he reached up to wrap his arms about the Ghost’s shoulders and bury his face against it to hide from the visions.

Suddenly the Spirit dropped beneath him; disappearing save for its light that could not be hidden: which streamed below Gold, in an unbroken flood upon the ground, bleeding away until Gold left in total darkness.

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by excruciating sadness; and, further, of being in his own, darkened bedroom. He sat upon his bed, holding his head in his hands, weeping, and trying to steady his breath; when he heard the knocker of his front door strike twice.


	4. Belle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \-----  
> Hard-hearted and bitter, Mr. Gold, is given a chance for redemption when he is haunted by three ghosts on Christmas Eve.  
> \-----

At first, he was uncertain if he had heard anything; so distracted was he by the fading light of the Ghost and the images of his past that he believed the knock to be that of his own heart. Upon hearing it strike again, he wiped his eyes upon his cuff and grabbed his cane. Looking at the clock, he saw that its hands were, once more, poised to strike the hour of Twelve. With his mind still full of the world unseen, he hobbled to his front door like a man in a trance.

His attention was sharpened, however, upon opening the door and finding none other than Miss Belle French standing before him; her stance as that of one ready to make a hasty retreat. She was bundled in a thick midnight blue dress and two raggedy shawls; a pair of homemade mittens upon her hands and cap upon her head, attempting to restrain her curls.

“Ah! Mr. Gold! Forgive me for the hour! I’m so sorry, sir!” she stammered, averting her eyes with embarrassment and looking for a way of escape. “I was unable to rest after your speech this afternoon and I had the strangest sense that you wouldn’t be asleep either, so I came here to speak with you and I was just about to leave for I know this is all very improper but—”

She looked up into his face, at last, and it was then her ramblings ceased. Gold could not help but inwardly sigh at the thought of his appearance; he was without his suit jacket, his cuffs were unbuttoned and wet with tears, his hair in disarray and his eyes raw with emotion.

“Are you alright, sir?” she inquired, and the gentle compassion in her voice was nearly enough to make him succumb to his melancholy emotions once more. In that moment, he was resolved to keep her with him for a time; his heart still stinging with the Ghost of the Past and the depths that were his loneliness.

“I am well, Miss French,” he replied hoarsely. “Though, truthfully, I am in need of company. Please, come in out of the cold.”

“Oh, I,” said she, hesitantly. “I’m not sure, sir. I do not wish for your neighbors to assume you have lost your sense of propriety by... by inviting me in.”

Mr. Gold’s expression softened at her words, “You have come into this house to clean many a time. As for neighbors, I have none to speak of; few live nearby, and those who do care not who may come to my doorstep at the cusp of midnight.”

As if on cue, the church bells tolled the hour. With features both flushed and embarrassed, Miss French halted her words until the last stroke rang out and she was certain she would be heard.

“But what if someone does see, and does care?” she asked with sincerity. “What of your reputation?”

“It is already sullied,” he replied with conviction, moving out of the way to allow her passage inside. “Little more damage could be done to it further, I believe.”

The young lady seemed contented by this thought and entered his domain with a solemn nod and a graceful step. He guided her into one of his smaller, furniture-filled parlors, far from any that had been tainted by Ghosts, and began to build a fire in what had once been a well-used fireplace. Miss French settled herself down upon a worn one-armed chaise that had clearly been used as a ladies’ recliner, for it was decorated in blues and pinks and detailed roses. Mr. Gold, having built a sufficiently sturdy fire, turned to find Miss Belle removing her cap and mittens, though keeping her shawls as she was still chilled.

“Come,” he said in a softer tone than he knew himself capable. “Come sit by the fire and warm yourself, dearie.”

With a small smile, she obliged; sitting upon the rug before the hearth opposite to himself. With difficulty, he settled himself down as well, and for a long moment the two were silent; content with the task of getting warm and sorting out their own, internal thoughts.

“Mr. Gold,” she began.

“Rumford,” replied he, his eyes locked on the dancing fire.

“What?”

“My name,” he said, glancing at her face for a moment. “My given name is Rumford Gold; you may use it, if you wish.”

If he had been looking at her, he would have seen the unconscious way she bit her lower lip in embarrassment and the slow bloom of pink upon her cheeks; but his eyes, and thoughts, were elsewhere.

“Very well… Rumford,” she said, awkwardly. “I must ask, what is amiss with you this evening? Why do you wish for company, now, when so often you deny it? You seem troubled and of a different mind.”

He laughed darkly, “You would not believe me if I spoke of it.”

“I would.”

“Not so.”

“Allow me to try.”

“Very well,” he replied with a smirk, in spite of it all. “I am being haunted.”

“Haunted?” she echoed, though her voice was full of curiosity and doubt; her features full of the hesitation, as though she believed this to be, perhaps, one of Gold’s cruelties or jokes.

“Yes,” said he, undecided to admit it all and selecting his words carefully. “Haunted by the past.”

“Your past?” returned she. “Is it… your child?”

He turned his head with a snap, his eye wide and looking upon her in shock; how could she know such a thing?

“Forgive me,” she said softly, wincing at his expression. “I happened upon a pair of baby’s clothes hidden in a trunk, once, when I was cleaning. I did not touch them; I could tell they were important, or had been, long ago, as they were so preciously preserved and wrapped in linen.”

He nodded and swallowed his tears, “They were for my son.”

“Your son?”

“He is dead; for many years now.”

“I am sorry.”

“I lost him,” he returned, his voice hitching. “As I did his mother.”

“She died?”

“No,” he said, solemnly. “No. I just—I lost her.”

Miss French, slowly, leaned forward at his words and caught him by the arm, as she had that afternoon. Her touch stilled his frantic and self-loathing heart, and seemed to envelop him with a warmth he could not remember ever feeling. He looked at her with weary, questioning eyes.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice as gentle and warm as tea on a cold winter’s day.

“I…” he began uncertainly, sounding more lost than ever. “You must understand… my father was a drunkard and a thief. I never knew my mother; I have no recollection of her at all. It was only my father. He abandoned me to a charitable institution when I was but a lad of five. I lived there for years until I was taken in by my two aunts. Their care and validation could not rid me of the label my father had left upon my name. I remained, and in many ways still remain, the son of a cowardly, debauched fool!”

Miss French’s eyes never wandered as her recounted the tale of his plight, and though his voice was rough with anger, her grip on his arm merely tightened; urging him on.

“I apprenticed as a spinner for some time,” he continued, speaking as though before a judge. “Until I met a young lady named Milah Rosewood. We married young and quickly, but I knew that we would be poor for the rest of our days if I did not change my reputation or situate us in another town. I should have…”

He paused then whispered, “I should have recognized Milah did not care a whit about my reputation when we were wed… I should have realized that what we had was enough… but I did not.”

Again, he paused, this time to collect himself.

“It was the year 1812,” he continued, his voice hitching for a moment before returning to its low, no-nonsense tone. “The Americans had declared war on England, and I eagerly enlisted as a foot soldier in Her Majesty’s army, seeing this as my opportunity to gain fortune and status; to wash the sullied name my father had bestowed upon me. But this was not to be: I gained little fortune, and saw only horror. Many other young men enlisted in my village, yet only I returned. I had been wounded and crippled in my leg and considered unsuitable for any further battle; in a war that lasted only three years and gained nothing!”

Balling his hand into a fist, he slammed it upon the ground in anger; Belle’s small hand remained steadfast, and only after a moment or two of controlling his warring emotions was he able to continue.

“When I returned,” he sighed. “I found that my reputation had only been further tainted. Milah had been with child when I left, but she had not told me. Because of this, the whole village assumed I had injured myself to return home to my newborn child; thus, the son of the coward became worse than his father. I was shamed and spat upon; condemned by the label of deserter. And my wife! My wife believed I had abandoned her, longing for redemption and ambition more than her happiness and our marital life. And, perhaps, this is true. Perhaps I did not love her! But I never wanted her to suffer birth alone! I never wanted my newborn son to--!”

He stopped, biting his cheek and wringing his hands to keep from crying. Trembling, he dared not look at the fearless, young woman at his side. Then, a touch at his shoulders; arms about his neck and back; he was being enveloped by her and she held fast to him in a comforting embrace; he could not keep from weeping now, and his tears flowed freely into her curling locks, and her hold tightened. And in that fierce lock, it felt as though all the pain and anguish of his life was pouring out of him, only to be caught by her.

At long last, he pulled away, and, with difficulty, tried to regain his composure and dignity; but it was impossible with her ocean-blue, tear-stained eyes looking upon him with compassion and empathy; she had been weeping with him.

“I,” he began, clearing his throat with a hum. “I left the village and came here to America… ironically. It seemed the best place in the world I could escape from my former life, and be reborn as a new man. I was fortunate to know another from the war who was journeying to this city—Jefferson. Together, we built our business from nothing. And that… that is all. There is nothing more to tell.”

“And,” said she, her voice strained from crying but full of tenderness. “All this time, you have loved no one, and no one has loved you?”

The manner of how she said these words disturbed him; leaning in closer to inspect her face in the firelight, he felt a strange spark of hope ignite inside his chest, where there had been only emptiness before.

“Why did you come here tonight?” he whispered, for such a question seemed necessary to ask in secrecy.

“I wasn’t going to,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper as well; her eyes looking up at him, shyly between her lustrous lashes. “Truthfully, I thought I should not, but something changed my mind…”

The answer was ambiguous, but left strange atmosphere in the room. Gold looked upon the sweet, beautiful woman before him and felt an almost overpowering need to kiss her. The desire for a kiss had not been felt within him for many years, and without thinking, he leaned in to her upturned face to do so, her eyes naturally closing as he did; however, he remembered himself just in time in the end; the sorrowful face of Milah appearing in his thoughts and his own complex insecurities revealing themselves. He sighed and then, moving away, cleared his voice once more.

“I, ah,” he began, awkwardly. “I thank you, Miss French, for hearing my tale.”

“Belle.”

“What?”

“My name,” she said patiently, echoing his words from earlier; she wore a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye as she gazed upon him. “My given name is Belle, and you may use it, if you wish.”

Blinking, Mr. Gold found his mouth open like a cod-fish, and closed it with a nervous swallow; unable to sort out and comprehend his feelings or even formulate words to reply to the strange, divine creature before him.

“And I think,” she continued, standing up and brushing off her skirts. “What we are both in need of is a warm cup of tea.”

She extended her hand to him, as an offer to help him rise from the ground; he took it with shy thanks and felt the warmth in his chest expand as he followed after her to the kitchen to fetch a kettle.


	5. The Ghost of Christmas Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \-----  
> Hard-hearted and bitter, Mr. Gold, is given a chance for redemption when he is haunted by three ghosts on Christmas Eve.  
> \-----

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore coming from the fair maiden asleep on the chaise, and sitting up from his own chair to get his thoughts together, Gold immediately sensed that the bell was poised on the stroke of Two. He felt that he was restored to consciousness right at the nick of time, for the purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him through Jefferson’s intervention.

The fire had died out in the fireplace, and he found that he turned uncomfortably cold and worried Belle felt the same; he placed logs upon the hearth and lit it once more, before looking about the room. He wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise and made nervous; he also wanted to discover if Belle could see the apparitions or if he was just simply bordering the edge of madness.

Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the bell struck Two, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, yet nothing came.

All this time, he sat upon his chair, the very core and center of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon him from the cracks of a door in the hallway when the clock proclaimed the half-hour; and which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would it could be. At last, however, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine.

He called out for Belle to awaken, still keen on having her with him to lessen his fear and prove the Ghosts real, but she did not stir; going to her, he shook her delicate body as roughly as he could permit himself to—which was hardly rough at all. It then occurred to him that perhaps the hour in which he saw the Spirits was enchanted, and only he privy to them. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and hobbled, at last, to the door.

The moment Gold’s hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.

It was one of his own rooms. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrification of a hearth had never known in Gold’s time, or Jefferson’s, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Gold, as he came peeping round the door.

“Come in!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in! And know me better, man!”

Gold entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the strong-willed man he had been; and though the Spirit’s eyes seemed clear and kind, he truly did not wish to meet them.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit. “Look upon me!”

Gold hesitantly did so. Much like the previous ghost, the Spirit was clothed in green. It wore a simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its broad chest was shone, as if disdaining to be concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head, it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanor, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

“You look as if you have never seen the like of me before!” exclaimed the Spirit.

“But… I… never have?” Gold made answer to it.

“Never have?! You never walked with the younger members of my family; or my elder brothers born in these later years?” pursued the Phantom.

“I don’t think I have,” said Gold. “I mean, I’m fairly certain I would remember. Have you, eh, had many brothers, Spirit?”

“More than eighteen hundred,” said the Ghost.

“Eighteen hundred?!” exclaimed Gold before he could stop himself. “Your poor mother!”

His eyes widened with fear as the tasteless joke left his lips, but to his immense relief and surprise, the Spirit burst into a loud belly-laugh. This was unusual for Gold, who was used to people rolling their eyes at his dark, sarcastic humor and he could not help but feel a smile tug on his lips at the Ghost’s reaction.

Suddenly, Ghost of Christmas Present rose, “Come, Rumford Gold!”

“Spirit,” said Gold submissively, “conduct me where you will. I went forth the last time on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have something to teach me… I… let me profit by it.”

“Well said,” the Spirit replied with a smile. “Touch my robe!”

Gold did as he was told, and held it fast.

Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night. They stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where the people were making a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snow-storms.

The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker for the ever-spewing spouts of the industrial factories, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground. The sky was cloudy with scant rays of sunlight, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in the city had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts’ content.

There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the scenery, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavored to diffuse in vain.

The people who were shoveling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a mischievous snowball—a better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest—laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers’ shops were still half open, and the fruiterers’ were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers’ benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people’s mouths might water as they passed. There were great bins, squat and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.

The Grocers nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! Beautiful blended scents of tea and coffee were wafting from them; gleaming raisins so plentiful and rare could be seen; as well as almonds, and sticks of cinnamon, and candies so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint. There were figs so moist and pulpy, and French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, and everything that was good to eat in Christmas dress.

The customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committing hundreds of these little mistakes, in the best humor possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection.

But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of by-streets, lanes, and nameless alleyways, innumerable people, carrying their measly and scraped-up pennies to the bakers’ shops.

The sight of these poor revelers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with Gold beside him in a baker’s doorway, and taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humor was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day.

In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all those who ran home to begin the progress of their cooking.

“Is there a peculiar flavor you sprinkle from your torch?” asked Gold, curiously.

“There is; of my own concoction.”

“Does it work on any kind of dinner on this day?” asked Gold.

“To any kindly given. Ah, but to a poor one the most.”

“Why to a poor one most?” asked Gold.

“Because it needs it most.”

“Spirit,” said Gold, after a moment’s thought, “There are many who would claim it sinful to make merry outside of Church on this day, as these poor have done when the bell called others to sermon; that such revelry is not appropriate on the Seventh Day. I find it curious that you do not seem to mind in the least.”

“There are some upon this earth of yours,” returned the Spirit, “who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and judge their doings on themselves, not us.”

Gold promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost that, notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease and change his shape and statue. He stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall.

And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Gold’s clerk’s home; for there he went, and took Gold with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless David Nolan’s dwelling with the sprinkling of his torch. Think of that! David had but fifteen shillings a-week himself; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house!

Then up rose Mrs. Nolan, his wife, a woman of striking but odd appearance; her dark hair was shorn like a man’s, for she had sold it; though the reason Gold could hardly guess. In spite of this, she was a pale, fair woman with a kindly face, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which for a mere sixpence were a lovely addition. She laid the cloth, assisted by Emma Nolan, her oldest child of twelve, who while brave, was not the kind to wear ribbons, and instead let her blond hair wild. After helping her mother she came, with a sniff, running out to the front room, screaming that she could smell the goose, and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, danced about the table, and exalted her mother, while she blew upon the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.

“I wonder where your silly father is then?” said Mrs. Nolan with a grin. “And your brother, Neal! They weren’t as late last Christmas. Do you reckon he’s gone sledding again?”

The child laughed at her mother’s joke, but upon looking out the window exclaimed, “Here they are mother! Look!”

“Finally,” breathed Mrs. Nolan with immense relief.

“I’m going to hide!” Emma shouted with mischievous glee.

So Emma hid herself, and in came David, the father, with at least three feet of snow upon his fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and a dark-haired, tiny boy upon his shoulder. Alas for Neal, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! As Gold looked upon him, a curious feeling overcame him; it was not exactly grief, although it was similar. Perhaps empathy; sorrow that the pain he was so familiar with was also the burden of so young and small a body. These thoughts sobered him, even in the midst of such joy.

“Why, where’s our Emma?” cried Mr. Nolan, looking round with a smile.

“Why, I’m not sure,” said Mrs. Nolan, with a look that made little Neal giggle. “Perhaps she had to work long hours at the factory again.”

“She’s not here?!” said David, with such a sudden dampening of his high spirits; for he had been Neal’s blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. “Not here upon Christmas Day?!”

Emma didn’t have the heart to see her father disappointed, even if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while Mrs. Nolan hustled little Neal to the wash-house, much to his protest, so that he might be made presentable before supper.

“And how did little Neal behave?” asked Mrs. Nolan in confidence, when she had finally returned to her husband’s side and David had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content. Their son, while cripple, still had the reputation for mischief like his sister; though a strong sense of right and wrong, of truth and dishonesty; he was an unusually bright child.

“As good as gold,” said David to his wife. “I think he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him at church, because he is cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”

David’s voice was tremulous when he told her this, and trembled more when he said that he thought little Neal was growing strong and hearty. His wife, upon hearing her son and daughter away in the wash-house laughing, kissed her husband soundly and he sighed with contentment when their lips parted.

Then Neal’s active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back he came before another word was spoken, escorted by his sister to her stool before the fire; and while David, turning up his cuffs—as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby—compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer. Mrs. Nolan, then proclaimed the goose complete upon it’s spit. She and her husband swiftly made a place for it upon the table.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon—and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Nolan made the gravy hissing hot, sweetened up the apple-sauce, and dusted the hot plates; Emma mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; David took Neal beside him in a tiny corner at the table and then helped set chairs for everybody, not forgetting himself. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Nolan, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all-round the board, and both Emma and Neal beat on the table with the handle of their knives, and cried, “Hurrah!”

There never was such a goose. David said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Accompanied by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Nolan said with great delight. Everyone had had enough, and the youngest Nolan in particular, was steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed, and Mrs. Nolan left the room alone to take the Christmas cake up and bring it in.

A great deal of steam announced her return, and in she came—flushed, but smiling proudly—with the cake, smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg, blazing in half of half-a-quarter of ignited brandy, and decked with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, it was a wonderful cake! David Nolan said, and that he regarded it as the greatest and most successful cake achieved by Mrs. Nolan since their marriage. Mrs. Nolan said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small cake for such a family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Nolan would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Nolan family drew round the hearth, in what David Nolan called a circle, meaning half a one; and at David Nolan’s elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, as well as golden goblets would have done; and David served it out with beaming, proud looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then David proposed:

“A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”

Which all the family re-echoed.

“God bless us everyone!” said Neal, the last of all.

He sat very close to his father’s side upon his little stool. David held his little hand in his, for he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

The sight was something Gold had little experience: the sight of a small, broken child deeply loved by his father. When the boy stood and hobbled to feast upon the hot chestnuts offered to him by his mother, Gold looked down upon his own twisted appendage.

“Spirit,” whispered Gold. “Tell me if the boy will live.”

“I see… a vacant seat,” replied the Ghost, faintly. “And a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die.”

“No, no,” said Gold, frantically. “No! Say he will be spared!”

“If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future,” returned the Ghost, “None other of my race can preserve him. But what then? If he is likely to die, then he had better do it. It is none of your concern!”

Gold hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with shame and grief.

“Man,” said the Ghost, “if man you be in heart, and not unyielding: will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Such things are not yours to decide, Rumford Gold, though you may have the power to change that fate.”

Gold bent before the Ghost’s rebuke, and trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on hearing his own name.

“Mr. Gold!” said David; “I’ll give you Mr. Gold, the Founder of the Feast!”

“Mr. Nolan?” Gold said aloud, unconsciously, for he was deeply moved at his employee’s sincere gratitude.

“The Founder of the Feast indeed!” cried Mrs. Nolan, reddening. “I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he’d choke on it!”

“Mary Margaret!” said David, shocked. “That’s--! The children! Christmas Day?!”

“It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,” said she, “on which one drinks the health of such an odious, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Gold. And you know he is, David! Nobody knows it better than you do! The children know it as well, I’m sure!”

The children, quite accustomed to their mother’s outbursts, wisely kept silent.

“My dear,” was David’s mild answer, “It is Christmas Day.”

“Fine! I’ll drink his health for your sake and the Day’s,” said Mrs. Nolan, with a pout. “not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy new year! He’ll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!”

She downed her drink, swifter than wise, and rolled her eyes sarcastically, in a way that made Mr. Gold blush with embarrassment.

The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness. Little Neal drank it last of all, but he didn’t care two pence for it; Gold was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes.

After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Gold the Malevolent being done with. Emma, who being twelve was just beginning her poor job in a cotton factory, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. She spoke of how she had seen a governor some days before on her way to work, and gushed on their manner and appearance. Mrs. Nolan told jokes and regaled the gossip about how their second neighbor had gotten drunk and left his trousers in the street, coming home chuckling naked in the snow, making them all shriek with scandal and laughter. All this time, the chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and by-and-by they had a song, about a lost child travelling in the snow, from little Neal, who had a lovely little voice, and sang it very well indeed.

There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty, and they all might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker’s. But, the Nolan’s were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit’s torch at parting, Gold had his eye upon them, and especially on Neal, until the last.

By this time, it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as Gold and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlors, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. Here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cozy dinner, with hot plates baking through and through before the fire, and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut out cold and darkness.

There were children of each house running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. Here, again, were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbor’s house; where, woe upon the single man who saw them enter—artful witches—all a glow!

But, if you had judged from the numbers of people on their way to friendly gatherings, you might have thought that no one was at home to give them welcome when they got there, instead of every house expecting company, and piling up its fires half-chimney high. The Ghost blessed them all, with the waving of his bright torch. The very lamplighter, who ran on before, dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was dressed to spend the whole of the evening outdoors, laughed out loudly as the Spirit passed, though he had no company but Christmas!

The Spirit took Gold here and there; all throughout the city. Everywhere they went, it seemed as though the best of humanity was before them, and a source of good cheer in the hearts of every man they passed, as if on that night a spell had been broken and their eyes were once again clear and honest. Still, on the Spirit took him, even out to the city’s edge by the darkening sea. There, Gold spotted groups of fishermen, out alone upon the black water, singing songs of home; of peace on earth and good will towards mankind.

It was a great surprise to Gold, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as Death: it was a great surprise to Gold, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Gold to recognize it as Belle’s and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same young woman with approving affability!

“Ha, ha!” laughed Belle. “Ha, ha, ha!”

If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a woman more blessed in a laughter than she, all I can say is, I should like to know them too. Introduce them to me, and I’ll cultivate their acquaintance.

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humor. When she laughed in this way: holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting her face into the most extravagant contortions: her friends, laughed as heartily as she. Sitting in beside her was an elderly woman and another young lady; both laughing along with her

“Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“He said that Christmas was nonsense, as I live!” exclaimed Belle, with mirth. “He believed it too!”

“I still cannot believe you argued with _him_ : of all people!” said her friend, a charming girl in a gown of violet who was still laughing, indignantly. “How brave you are!”

As she turned to her friend, Gold could not help but think that she was very pretty: exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed—as no doubt it was; and her cornflower-blue eyes seemed full of sunshine.

“He’s really quite comical, you know,” said Belle to her friend. “He’s not as scary as many believe, and that’s the truth: I am always laughing at his remarks and thinking on his philosophy! Though he is not so pleasant as he might be, I believe his offences carry their own punishment.”

She sobered a little at this though, but with the shake of her head announced, “I have nothing to say against him; if anything, I wish he were my friend.”

“Perhaps more than a friend?” inquired her friend with a suggestive brow.

“My dear, Aurora!” Belle exclaimed, blushing scarlet and looking shocked. “That is quite enough! I have no idea what you mean!”

This made the trio laugh a tittering, girlish sort of laugh; at the sound of it Gold could feel his own face heating up and surely reddening as brightly as Belle’s had.

“I’m sure he is very rich, dear,” hinted the older woman at last, at her side. “At least you always tell me so.”

“Oh what of that, mother?” said Belle. “His wealth is of no use to him. He won’t do any good with it. He won’t make himself comfortable with it. Silly man!”

“I have no patience with him,” observed the friend, and her mother reluctantly expressed the same opinion.

“Oh, but I have!” said Belle, beaming and hopeful. “I am sorry for him; but I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself… always himself. Here, he takes it into his head to dislike me, and he won’t come and dine with us. What’s the consequence? He doesn’t get to taste our very delicious dinner.”

“Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner,” interrupted the friend. And the mother said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamplight.

“All I mean is,” said Belle, her words sobering once more. “That the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office, or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I… I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can’t help thinking better of it—I defy him—if he finds me going there, in good temper, day after day, and saying, ‘Mr. Gold, how are you?’ If it only reminds him just a little that he is not alone… that’s something; what’s more, I think I shook him yesterday.”

It was their turn to laugh now at the notion of her shaking Gold; for who could do such a thing? She seemed ready to say something to this, but being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, she encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the bottle joyously.

There was a knock at the door and two more young ladies entered the house. To Gold’s surprise, one was the tavern-keeper’s daughter, whom was of ill repute; she wore a dress of scandalous scarlet and carried with her a bottle of wine. Accompanying her was another young lady who was of Eastern heritage, who spoke little, but who was embraced gladly by Belle. It seemed that Miss Belle French was not only fair in appearance, but fair of heart, as her kindness and friendship was readily given to any and all; the outcasts and the foreign found refuge in her home, and Gold found his himself feeling proud at this, though he did not know why.

“I have learned his name, you know,” she said aloud, after all had settled once more.

“Who?” replied the girl in scarlet.

“Mr. Gold, of course,” returned she.

The two newcomers gave each other knowing looks and grinned.

“Of course,” they returned.

“Well,” inquired Aurora. “What is it?”

“Rumford,” Belle said with a blush, causing light laughter to ripple, once more throughout the group.

“Rumford…” mused her mother. “Rumford Gold… that name is familiar.”

“Is it?” Belle asked, lightly. “I’ve never met any by such a name.”

“It is not common here,” replied the elderly matron. “But in Scotland it is, from which I came from. I wonder...”

The older woman grew thoughtful, and the young ladies returned to their desserts, tea, and wine.

After tea, they had some music. For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about. Belle, herself, played well upon the harp; and played among other tunes a simple little air, which she claimed was a mere nothing: you might learn to whistle it in two minutes, which had been familiar to the children who toiled with Gold from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of Christmas Past. When this strain of music sounded, all the things that Ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the violence and ambition that had buried Jefferson Hatter.

The young ladies then played a silly game of blind-man’s buff, while the elderly matron was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner, where the Ghost and Gold were close behind her. But she joined in the game of How, When, and Where, she was very great, and to the secret joy of Belle, beat all of her friends: though they were sharp girls too, she could have told you. Gold found himself lost in the game as well; wholly forgetting that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed quite right, too.

The Ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such favor, that he begged like a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But this the Spirit said could not be done.

“But they are starting a new game,” implored Gold. “One half hour, Spirit, only one!”

It was a Game called Yes and No, where Belle had to think of something, and the rest must guess what it was; she only answered to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which she was exposed, elicited that she was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in Storybrooke, and walked about the streets, and wasn’t made a show of, and wasn’t led by anybody, and didn’t live in a zoo, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to her, she burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that she was obliged to get up off the sofa and twirl about. At last Aurora, falling into a similar state, cried out:

“I have found it out! I know what it is, Belle! I know what it is!”

“What is it?” cried Belle.

“It’s your dear Mr. Gold!”

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to “Is it a bear?” ought to have been “Yes;” since an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Mr. Gold, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way.

“He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure,” said Belle at length, “and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, to ‘Mr. Gold!’ ”

“Very well! To Mr. Gold!” they cried, falling over themselves with laughter.

“A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the dear man, whatever he is,” said Belle, privately to herself, while her friends chattered away. “He wouldn’t take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless.”

Gold had imperceptibly become so light of humor and full of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, thanked them in an inaudible speech, and taken Belle to his lips, if the Ghost had given him time. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by Belle; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels.

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery’s every refuge, he left his blessing.

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Gold had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was strange, too, that while Gold remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Gold had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children’s Twelfth Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair had gone completely white.

“Are spirits’ lives so short?” asked Gold.

“My life upon this earth, is very brief,” replied the Ghost. “It ends to-night, in fact.”

“To-night?!” cried Gold. “But, Spirit, I have learned so much from you… and felt more love and warmth than I have in my entire lifetime!”

“The bell will soon toll to Midnight,” said the Spirit, smiling warmly and putting a heavy hand upon the shorter man’s shoulder. “Listen! The time is drawing near.”

The chimes were ringing the three quarters past Eleven at that moment.

“Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,” said Gold, looking intently at the Spirit’s robe, “but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. What is it?”

“Take heed, and look,” was the Spirit’s sorrowful reply.

From the folding of its robe, it brought forth two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, and miserable. They knelt at Spirit’s feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds.

Gold started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

“What?! Spirit! Are… are they yours?” Gold could say no more.

“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them, full of sadness. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy from Ignorance. This girl from Want. They shall perish with me, tonight, and I shall bear them from this world to the next. Beware willful Ignorance, Gold!” cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city.

“Have these children no refuge or resource?” cried Gold, with a terrible pity. “No place to ease their suffering?”

“Are there no prisons?” said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are there no workhouses?”

The bell struck Twelve.

Gold looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it was gone. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of Jefferson, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him, laughing.


	6. The Ghost of Christmas Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \-----  
> Hard-hearted and bitter, Mr. Gold, is given a chance for redemption when he is haunted by three ghosts on Christmas Eve.  
> \-----

The Phantom approached, laughing a cruel, high-pitched laugh that froze the very blood in Gold’s veins. When it came near him, Gold bent down upon his knees; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter fear and mystery.

The laughing Ghost was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand, that shimmered oddly in the moonlight. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

Gold’s inability to look upon the Spirit’s face and its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more-- for now that the Spirit had ceased laughing, it neither spoke nor moved.

“Am… a-am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” asked Gold, quivering.

The Spirit nodded its hooded face, and pointed onward with its hand.

“A-and, you are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened… but, uh, will happen in the time before us,” Gold pursued, still stricken. “Is… is that so?”

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Gold feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment, as if observing his condition with amusement, and giving him time to recover.

But Gold was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a shimmering hand and one great heap of black.

“Ghost of the Future,” he admitted, trembling. “I fear you... more than any specter I have seen before. B-but as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I… I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. But… will you not speak to me?”

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.

“O-of course!” said Gold, eagerly. “The night is fading fast, a-and it is precious time to me, I understand. Lead on, Spirit!”

The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him, and Gold followed, in the shadow of its cloak. They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed to spring up from the fog about them, and encompass them of its own act. But there they were, in the heart of it; among the merchants; who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals; and so forth, as Gold had seen them often do.

The Spirit stopped beside one little gathering of business men. Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Gold advanced, cautiously, to listen to their talk.

“No,” said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, “I don’t know much about it, one way or the other. I only know he’s dead.”

“When did he die?” inquired another.

“Last night, I think.”

“Why? What was the matter with him?” asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. “I thought he’d never die! Ha, ha, ha!”

“God knows,” said the first, with a yawn.

“What has he done with his money?” asked a red-faced gentleman with a drooping growth on the end of his nose, that shook like the gullet of a turkey.

“I haven’t heard,” said the man with the large chin, yawning once again. “Left it to his business, perhaps. He hasn’t left it to me. That’s all I know.”

This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.

“It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral,” said the same speaker; “for upon my life I don’t know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?”

“I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided,” observed the gentleman with the growth on his nose.

Another laugh.

“Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all,” said the first speaker, “for I never wear black gloves, and I hardly eat lunch. But I’ll offer to go, if anybody else will. I had spoken with him, once or twice. However, I must dash, at the moment. Farewell for now!”

Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Gold knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for an explanation.

The Phantom gave none, though it did chuckle in a frightening and cruel way, and glided further on into a street. Its finger pointed to two persons meeting. Gold frantically scrambled to them and listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here.  
He knew these men also. They were men of business: very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem, in a strictly business point of view, that is.

“How are you?” said one.

“Well,” returned the other. “How are you?”

“Well!” said the first. “The old Imp is gone at last, eh?”

“So I am told,” returned the second. “Cold, isn’t it?”

“Seasonable for Christmas time. You’re not a skater, I suppose?”

“No! No,” was the response. “Don’t be ridiculous. Good morning!”

Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting.

Gold was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; but feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be.

They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jefferson, his old partner, for that was the Past, and this Ghost’s province was the Future. Nor could he think of any one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could apply them. But nothing doubting that to whomsoever they applied they had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw; and to pay special attention to the shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy.

He looked about in that very place for his own image; but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through. It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this.

Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand, and its position to himself, that the Unseen Eyes were looking at him intensely. It made him shudder, and feel very cold.

They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Gold had never entered before, although he recognized its situation, and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people were half-naked, drunken, slipshod, and ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery.

Far in this den of infamy, there was a low-browed shop, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were bought. Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to scrutinize were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchers of bones. Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal stove, made of old bricks, was a gaunt, disreputable man; who smoked his pipe as if in all the luxury of calm retirement.

Gold and the Dark Spirit came into the presence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too; and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them, than they had been upon the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank astonishment, they all three burst into a laugh.

“Let the charwoman go first!” cried she who had entered first. “Let the laundress be the second; and let the undertaker’s man be the third. Look here, Mr. Hades, what are the odds? If we haven’t all three met here without planning!”

“You couldn’t have met in a better place,” said Mr. Hades, removing his pipe from his mouth. “Come into the parlor. You were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other two ain’t strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop.”

The parlor was the space behind a screen of rags. Mr. Hades raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and having trimmed his smoky lamp, for it was night, with the stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again, smoke billowing from his smiling lips.  
While he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two.

“What are the chances? What odds, Ms. Zelena?” said the woman. “Every person has a right to take care of themselves, I suppose. He always did.”

“That’s true, Mrs. Mills!” said the laundress, with a snort. “No man more so.”

“Why then, do you stand there staring as if you was afraid, woman; who’s the wiser? We’re not going to pick holes in each other’s coats.”

“No, indeed!” said Ms. Zelena and the man together. “At least, I should hope not.”

“Very well, then!” cried Mrs. Mills, with a wicked grin. “That’s enough. Who’s the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose!”

“No, indeed,” said Ms. Zelena, laughing.

“If he wanted to keep them after he was dead, he would have, I’m sure,” pursued Mrs. Mills with a laugh. “If he hadn’t been quite as terrible, he might have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there… alone by himself.”

“It’s the truest word that ever was spoke,” said Ms. Zelena. “It’s a judgment on him.”

“I wish it was a little heavier judgment,” replied Mrs. Mills sourly. “And it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, my dear Hades, and let me know the value of it, plainly. I’m not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it. We know pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It’s no sin. Quick now, open the bundle.”

But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the silent man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced his plunder. It was not extensive. A seal or two, a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value, were all. They were severally examined and appraised by crafty Mr. Hades, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each, upon the wall, and added them up into a total when he found there was nothing more to come.

“That’s your account,” said Mr. Hades to the man. “And I wouldn’t give another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who’s next?”

Ms. Zelena was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner.

“I always give too much to ladies. It’s a weakness of mine, and that’s the way I ruin myself,” said Mr. Hades, in a manner that was somewhere between charming and off-putting. “That’s your account. If you asked me for another penny, and made it an open question, I’d repent of being so liberal and knock off half-a-crown.”

“And now undo my bundle, dear, Mr. Hades,” said Mrs. Mills.

Mr. Hades went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.

“What’s this?” said Mr. Hades. “Bed-curtains?!”

“Ah!” returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. “Bed-curtains!”

“You don’t mean to say you took ’em down, rings and all, with him lying there?” said Mr. Hades, shocked.

“Yes I do,” replied Mrs. Mills. “Why not?”

“You were born to make your fortune,” said Mr. Hades. “And you’ll certainly do it.”

“Well I certainly won’t hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, I promise you, Hades, my dear,” returned Mrs. Mills coolly. “Don’t drop any oil upon these blankets, now.”

“His blankets?!” asked Mr. Hades.

“Whose else’s do you think?” replied Mrs. Mills with a cold smile. “He isn’t likely to take cold without them, I dare say.”

“I hope he didn’t die of anything catching? Eh?” said old Joe, stopping in his work, and looking up.

“Don’t you be afraid of that,” returned the woman. “I’m not so fond of his company, nor as foolish, that I’d loiter about him for such things, if he did. Ah! You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won’t find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It’s the best he had, and a fine one too. They’d have wasted it, if it hadn’t been for me.”

“What do you call wasting of it?” asked Mr. Hades with a curious gleam.

“Putting it on him to be buried in it, of course,” replied Mrs. Mills, her voice chillingly indifferent. “Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If silk isn’t good enough for such a scheme, it isn’t good enough for anything. And such finery is quite becoming to the body; though he can’t look uglier than he did in that one.”

Gold listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the gaunt man’s lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, if they had been obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Mrs. Mills, when Mr. Hades, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground. “This is the end of it, you see! He frightened everyone away from him when he was alive, only to profit us when he was dead! Ha, ha, ha!”

“Spirit!” said Gold, shuddering from head to foot. “I see—I see now. The case of this unhappy man might be my own, right?! My life… but… by the gods, what is this?!”

He recoiled in terror, for the scene had suddenly changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncontained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay something covered up, which, though it was silent, announced itself in an awful language.  
The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, though Gold glanced round it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of a man.

Gold glanced frightfully towards the Phantom, who was chuckling wickedly. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Gold’s part, would have disclosed the face. He thought of doing so, reasoned that it would be easy to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the specter at his side.

_Oh cold, rigid, and dreadful Death! Set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is thy dominion!_

No voice pronounced these words in Gold’s ears, and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts? Avarice, hard-dealing, griping cares? They have brought him to a rich end, and nothing more!

He lay, in the dark, empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child, to speak of his kindness. A cat was tearing at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearth-stone. What they wanted in the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, Gold did not dare to think.

“Spirit!” he said. “P-please! I am afraid! This is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us leave this place, I beg you!”

Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head, chuckling darkly.

“I-I understand you,” Gold returned, “A-and I would do it, if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have _not_ the power!”

Again, it seemed to look upon him with detached amusement.

“If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by this man’s death,” said Gold with visible agony, “Show that person to me, Spirit, I beg you!”

The Phantom seemed happy to oblige his request, and spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a mother and her children were.

She was expecting someone, and with anxious eagerness; for she walked up and down the room; started at every sound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock; tried, in vain, to work with her needle; and could hardly bear the voices of the children playing.

At length, the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to repress.

He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire; and when she asked him faintly what news, which was not until after a long silence, he appeared embarrassed to answer.

“Is it good?” she asked, urging him to answer. “O-or bad?”

“Bad,” he answered, plainly.

“We are quite ruined?!”

“No. There is hope yet, Ashley.”

“If he relents there is!” she said, her expression troubled. “Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle could happen...”

“He is past relenting,” said her husband, his tone heavy. “He is dead.”

She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke truth; but it was clear from her expression that she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so, with clasped hands and teary eyes. She prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart.

“What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of last night, said to me, when I tried to see him and obtain a week’s delay; and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me; turns out to have been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying, then.”

“To whom will our debt be transferred?”

“I don’t know. But before that time, we will be ready with the money; and even if we are not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find a creditor as merciless as his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, my dear!”

And their hearts were lighter; the children’s faces, hushed and clustered round to hear what they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a _happier house for this man’s death!_ The only emotion that the Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure. It shook him to his heart.

“Let me see some tenderness connected with death,” said Gold; “O-or this vision will haunt me forever!”

The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet; and as they went along, Gold looked here and there to find himself, but, he realized with increasing anxiety, that he was nowhere to be seen.

They entered poor David Nolan’s house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found the mother and the lively young Emma seated round the fire.

Quiet. Very quiet. The normally feisty Nolan mother seemed to be engaged in sewing, but did so quite silently. The lively Emma was reading in a corner, and sat as still as a statue.

_‘And He took a child, and set him in the midst of them.’_

Where had Gold heard those words? He had not dreamed them. The girl must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Yet why did she not go on?

The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face, much to the distress of the daughter, who rose from her chair quickly.

“It’s nothing, Emma!” Mrs. Nolan exclaimed, in a pained voice. “The color hurts my eyes, is all.”

The color?

_Little Neal._

“They’re better now again,” said Nolan’s wife. “It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn’t show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world, child! It must be near his time to reach home.”

“Past it rather,” Emma answered, shutting up her book. “But I think he has walked a little slower than he used to, these few last evenings, mother.”

They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once: “I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Neal upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.”

“And so have I,” returned Emma. “Often.”

“But he was very light to carry,” she resumed, intent upon her work, “and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble: no trouble… Ah! And there is your father at the door!”

She hurried out to meet him; and David in his coat—he had need of it, poor fellow—came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob, and both wife and daughter led him before the fire.

“Don’t mind it, father,” Young Emma said, as she kissed her father’s cheek. “Please, don’t be grieved!”

David was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Nolan and the girl. They would be done long before Sunday, he said.

“Sunday? You went today, then, David?” said his wife.

“Yes, my dear,” returned Mr. Nolan. “I wish you could have gone... it would have done you good to see how very green a place it is. But you’ll see it often, I’m sure. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday…”

His voice hitched and his hands trembled.

“My little, little child!” cried David. “My little child!”

He broke down all at once. He couldn’t help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps than they were.

He left the room, and went up-stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with a Christmas wreath. Poor David sat down upon his bed, and when he had thought a little and composed himself, he wiped his eyes upon his sleeve. He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again. 

They drew about the fire, and talked; all the while, the girl and mother working still. David told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr. Gold’s maid, whom he had seen that day, dressed in mourning clothes, and who, meeting her in the street, she had recognized that he looked—“just a little down, you know,” said David, and inquired what had happened to distress him. “On which,” said David, “for she is one of the kindest-speaking people you will ever meet, I told her of… of Neal. ‘I am heartily sorry for it, Mr. Nolan,’ she said to me, ‘and I am heartily sorry for your good wife.’ By the by, how she ever knew that, I don’t know.”

“Knew what, my dear?”

“Why, that you were a good wife,” replied David, taking her hand with a shy, sad smile. There was no true barb in his teasing, and Mrs. Nolan returned his gesture with a watery smile of her own.

“Everybody knows that!” said Emma with a laugh.

“Very well observed, my dear!” cried David. “I hope they do. ‘Heartily sorry,’ she had said, ‘for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way,’ she said, giving me her card, ‘that’s where I live. Pray come to me.’ Now, it wasn’t,” cried David, “for the sake of anything she might be able to do for us, for what could she do? I merely think it is in her kind nature that she offer. It was comforting. It really seemed as if she had known our Neal, and felt his passing with us.”

“She sounds like a good soul,” supplied Mrs. Nolan.

“You would be surer of it, my dear,” returned David, “if you saw and spoke to her. I shouldn’t be at all surprised—mark what I say!—if she could help Emma with a better situation.”

“Hear that, Emma?” said Mrs. Nolan.

“It’s just as likely as not,” said David, turning solemn once more. “One of these days, Emma, love, you will go out into the world to make your own fortune; though there’s plenty of time for that, my dear. However, whenever it is we do part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Neal—shall we—or this first parting that there was among us?”

“Never, father!” cried Emma, tears falling stubbornly down her face, though it was clear she was trying to hold them back.

“I…,” said David, his voice cracking and his eyes uncertain. “I-I am so sorry, my dears. I am s-so…”

Mrs. Nolan pulled her husband close, as he broke down and wept bitter tears. Emma, joined their embrace and, together, they held tight to their sorrow. Alas for Mr. Nolan; he seemed the most broken of them all, and one could see his happy, childish nature turn bitter and vanish with every tear.

Gold watched them for a long moment, his hand upon his chest and unshed tears standing in his own eyes.

“Specter,” said Gold, at length. “Something… I sense that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Will you… will you not tell me who it was that we saw lying dead?”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come transported him, as before—though at a different time, he thought: for there seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were in the Future.

A churchyard. Here, then; the wretched man whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation’s death, not life; choked up with too much burying.

The Spirit stood among the graves, and with another shrill giggle, pointed down to one.

Trembling, Gold edged towards his; his heart pounding wildly. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn, dark shape.

“B-before I draw nearer to that stone,” said Gold, shaking. “Answer me: Are these the shadows of the things that _Will_ be, or are they shadows of things that _May_ be, o-only?”

The Ghost laughed harder and pointed more emphatically downward to the grave by which it stood.

“A man’s choice will lead to a certain end!” argued Gold, desperately. “B-but if his choices change, will not the outcome change as well? Please say it is before I look!”

The Spirit was immovable as ever, though it’s laughter continued, cruelly.

Gold crept towards it, quaking as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, _Rumford Gold_.

“A-a-am I that man who lay upon the bed?” he cried, upon his knees.

“But of course, dearie!” came a shrill voice from the dark cloth. “Ha, ha, ha! Didja’ truly think anything but your avarice would remain?”

At this, the Spirit pulled back the cloth from its head, and Gold found himself looking at his duplicate in face and features, but the skin on his counterpart appeared like rotting gold; his eyes gleaming and cruel; his hair was wild and a wicked grin covered decaying teeth. It laughed a punishing, terrifying laugh. In trembling revelation, Gold looked upon the true appearance of his greedy soul and was repulsed.

“No!” cried Gold, falling backwards upon his own gravestone. “Oh no, no!”

The creature danced before him, coming closer to his proximity; it’s high-pitched, cruel laugh growing louder and more mocking in his suffering, chilling him to his very soul.

“Stop!” he cried, shielding his eyes from the demon-man before him. “H-hear me! I am not that man! I-I am not the man I was! I will not be the man I must have been for such an end! W-why would you show me this, if I am past all hope?!”

“Why indeed?” the Spirit returned in a sing-song voice, his laughter ceasing. Then! At the creature’s feet, sparks ignited and a billowing black fog rolled out, enveloping them both; the Ghoul’s gleaming eyes shining brightly through the smoke.

“Please!” he pursued, prostrating himself before the Ghost. “I b-beg your nature intercede for me, and take pity on me! Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life, I beg you!”

The dark fog consumed him, until Gold could no longer see the hand before his face, and there was no reply from the Spirit; only silence.

“I will honor Christmas in my heart, and keep it all the year!” he cried, tears falling freely from his face. “I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future! The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me! I tell you will not shut out the lessons that they teach! Please! Say that I may sponge away the writing on this stone! Say that my heart is not lost forever!”

In his agony, he reached out to grab the hem of the Spirit’s robe. Grasping about and catching it, he felt the Spirit attempt to free itself of him, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repelled him.

Holding up his hands in a last, desperate prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the shadow of the Phantom’s hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost; the fog clearing and revealing his bedroom.


	7. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \-----  
> Hard-hearted and bitter, Mr. Gold, is given a chance for redemption when he is haunted by three ghosts on Christmas Eve.  
> \-----

The bedpost was his own.

As was the bed he lay upon, and the room about him.

With a moment of true clarity and bliss, Gold realized that the time was his own. And what a joy that was!

The first light of dawn broke through his windows. Gold turned, as if summoned, to look at that beckoning sunlight, whereupon, he saw the faded image of Jefferson’s ghost once more. It stood before him, no longer blowing in the wind, no longer with its head detached, but whole, and with a flush of living color upon its face, as it once had in its living, handsome youth. It looked at Gold, but said nothing.

Gold’s fear and confusion melted away, and he smiled, and stepped forward to meet it.

“J-Jefferson,” Gold called out, relief and joy thickening his accent. “I understand now, my dear friend!”

Reaching out, the two embraced, and Gold was hardly surprised to find his friend solid to his touch for the moment.

“I’ll will bring Grace home,” Gold swore to the spirit.

When he released it and opened his eyes, Jefferson was gone, leaving only sunlight behind.

“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future,” Gold spoke aloud. “The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. My dear Jefferson… Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this! May your journey be light and swift, my friend. I say it on my knees, Jeff; on my knees!”

He was so flustered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely go on. He had been sobbing so violently in his conflict with the Spirit, that his face was wet with tears.

“They are not torn down,” assured Gold aloud, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, “they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here—and I am here—the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be. I _know_ they will, for I will make them so!”

He spoke this with such determination and force that the very air, itself, seemed to take on a more energized and hallowed quality.

His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, fluttering through the air with such agitation and flamboyance, an onlooker would have howled with laughter.

“I don’t know what to do!” cried Gold, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect fool of himself with his stockings. “I feel as light as a feather, and as giddy as a drunk! Gods, a brandy actually does sound good for a moment like this! Ha, ha! A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world—for it is reborn anew!”

He had rushed into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded and momentarily surprised.

“Belle,” he breathed, staring at her lovely, sleeping form. She was still there!

Cautiously, gently, he knelt beside the chaise she reclined upon and, pushing back a lustrous curl, shook her shoulder with the force of a kitten pawing at its mother.

“Belle,” he said, and his voice, even to himself, sounded softer and kinder than he had ever heard. “Belle, it is morning.”

She hummed in sleepy nonsense and shook her pretty head; her eyes remaining closed.

“Rum,” she murmured, in a dozy half-sleep. “Wanted to ….tell you...”

“Tell me what?”

“ _Love you_ …”

Gold’s heart skipped a measure, and he felt an impossible smile spread across his face. Without hesitating, he leaned over and kissed her, chastely, upon her drowsy, pouting mouth. Her eyelids fluttered open at his touch, and upon realizing what had transpired, and what words had escaped her mouth, promptly sat up with a squeak; her face as red as a sprig of holly.

“Y-y-you—!” she stuttered. “Gold, you—! Y-you _heard_ me?!”

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh. If anyone had known better, they would have thought he came from a long, long line of brilliant laughs!

“ _Aye_ ,” he said after catching his breath, and feeling guilty for embarrassing the poor girl. “—and I love you too,” he added quickly.

The words came out so easily that it left him feeling a twinge of shame. The feelings he had kept hidden from her, and himself, had always been ready on his lips; to think they may have been left there, forever unsaid, was a sad thought to think.

But there was no time to dwell on it, for the girl promptly threw herself about his neck and embraced him with sigh of relief. Her graceful body pressed against his own, and he buried his face in her sweet-smelling curls, cradling her head with one hand.

“Belle—hey,” Gold breathed after a moment. “We’ll have time for that…”

He pulled away, and saw Belle looking into his eyes with confusion and longing.

“We’ll have time for everything,” he said tenderly, with a watery smile. “But first, I-I don’t seem to know what day of the month it is? I’m not sure how long I’ve been among the Spirits... I… I don’t know _anything_.”

“ _What_?” Belle returned with a laugh, teasing him in a way that thrilled his heart. “Now who is speaking nonsense?”

He laughed with her, but was checked by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer; ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious!

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head; a rustling of skirts informed his ears that Belle was following behind him. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; blankets of white snow; merry bells. Oh, so glorious!

“What’s to-day?!” cried Gold, calling downward to a boy dressed in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

“Eh?” returned the boy, with all his might of wonder. “What?!”

“What’s to-day?” cried Gold again.

“To-day?!” replied the boy. “Christmas Day, of course!”

“It’s Christmas Day?!” asked Gold, turning to Belle, who laughed again and nodded an affirmative. “I haven’t missed it! The Spirits have done it all in one night! But then… they can do anything they like, of course!”

“I think, perhaps, you’re still dreaming, Rum?” Belle teased.

“Boy!” cried Gold, out the window once more.

“Sir?” returned the boy.

“Do you know the Poulterer’s, in the next street, at the corner?” Gold inquired.

“Well, yeah?” replied the lad.

“Wonderful!” said Gold. “Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up there?—Not the little prize Turkey: the big one?”

“What, the one as big as me?” returned the boy.

“What an intelligent boy,” said Gold a little sarcastically, making Belle laugh. “Yes, my lad!”

“It’s hanging there now,” replied the boy.

“Excellent,” said Gold. “Go and buy it.”

“What?!” exclaimed the boy. “You can’t serious?!”

“No, no,” said Gold, “I am! Go and buy it for me, and tell ’em to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I’ll give you a nickel. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I’ll give you an entire quarter!”

The boy was off like a shot. Considering his size, he ran faster than could have been expected of him.

“What on earth are you buying such a big turkey for?” Belle asked, her eyes smiling.

“I’m going to send it to David Nolan’s,” whispered Gold, rubbing his hands while chuckling. “He won’t know who sent it. It’s twice the size of son!”

Belle laughed again and shook her pretty head. “I don’t believe anyone ever made such a joke as sending it to David’s will be! He will be so shocked!”

Turning to her, Gold suddenly felt shy; she looked at him with such happiness and desire, he could hardly understand it.

“Belle… eh,” he began. “Will… will you permit me to join you for dinner this evening...?”

“Why, of course, Rum!” she said, taking his hands into hers. “It would make for the best Christmas present I could have asked for! But… tell me… if you don’t mind me asking, that is… what has happened to you? You seem quite… changed… I can hardly believe this is real; I feel that I must be dreaming along with you, and tomorrow will come and you will be as opposed to me as ever.”

He smiled sadly at her, realizing at once how often she must have felt rejection from him, and squeezed her hands gently.

“Promise me this is real?” she asked, looking up into his eyes with her own, tearful blue ones. “Promise me you’ll really… that you really…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his Scottish burr tinging his words with emotion. “I promise.”

The hand in which she wrote her address was not a steady one, for they were both fluttering and nervous in their new-found attachment, but write it she did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street door and leave without anyone’s notice.

Gold, brimming with happiness, followed her out and seeing her depart, made ready for the coming of the Poulterer’s man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye.

“I shall love it, as long as I live,” said Gold, with a chuckle, patting it with his hand. “I scarcely ever looked at it before. But it truly is a wonderful knocker… Oh-- right! The turkey! Hello, how are you? Merry Christmas!”

It was an incredible turkey! He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped ’em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax.

“Well, well, this’ll be impossible to carry that to Mr. Nolan’s home,” said Gold. “You must have a cab.”

He chuckled under his breath he said this, and then paid for the turkey, cab, and errand boy, with a generosity that shocked them all. Returning to his home, he proceeded to finally rid himself of his tear-soaked clothes and cleaned up.

Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much; and shaving requires attention, even when you don’t dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied.

He dressed himself in his best suit and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them do with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and walking with his hands behind him, Gold regarded everyone with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humored fellows said, “Good morning, sir! A merry Christmas to you!” which he shyly returned. And Gold said often afterwards, that of all the happy sounds he had ever heard, those were some of the happiest in his ears.

He had not gone far, when coming on towards him he beheld Mr. Hopper, who had walked into his counting-house the day before, and said, “Gold and Jefferson’s, I believe?” It sent a pang across his heart to think how this gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.

“My dear sir,” said Gold, quickening his pace, and taking the gentleman by both his hands. “Merry Christmas, I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you.”

“M-m-m-mr. Gold?” the poor man stammered, barely hiding his nervousness.

“Yes, dearie,” said Gold with a smile. “That is my name. I’m sorry that it must not be a pleasant one to you. Forgive me. I have had a… change of heart of sorts… and I wish to donate to your charity. If you will please put me down for”—here Gold whispered in his ear.

“Goodness gracious!” cried Mr. Hopper, as if his breath were taken away. “M-my dear Mr. Gold, are you serious?”

“If you please,” said Gold. “Not a penny less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favor?”

“My dear sir!” said the other, shaking hands with him and laughing with joy. “I don’t know what to say—!”

“Don’t say anything, please,” retorted Gold. “Come and see me. Will you, eh, come and see me?”

“I will!” cried the gentleman. And it was clear he meant to do it.

“Thank you,” said Gold. “I thank you fifty times. Merry Christmas!”

He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that nearly everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards Belle’s house.

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and, at last did.

Belle answered the door, dressed in a charming gown of green and a string of homely pearls about her neck. Gold felt as though he would faint from the beauty of her, and gripping his cane, followed her in with wobbly steps.

“Please,” she said to him, taking his hand gently and leading him into her parlour. “As the other guests have not arrived, and dinner is not yet prepared, would you come and meet my mother?”

The prospect was, to be truthful, not a pleasant one to Gold’s mind, being shy of his feelings towards Belle and awkward with such sudden familiarity as to meet the matron. However, with Belle’s hands upon his, he found himself agreeing nonetheless.

The elderly woman was seated facing the fireplace; her hands outstretched to warm her old bones. Gold could not see her face, for her back was turned; however, she heard them enter and, presently, rose cordially to greet them. When she looked upon him, her expression showed confusion, and then excitement.

“Mother,” Belle began. “This is—”

“Why it is young Master Rumford!” she cried, beaming with surprised delight.

To the amazement of both Belle and Gold, the older woman recognized him and took him by the hands. After a moment of scrutiny, Mr. Gold recognized her as well; her youthful face hidden under the wrinkles and years.

"M-Mrs. Marchland?!" he cried, flustered and overwhelmed.

"It is French now," she replied with a sad smile, releasing him and stepping back. "Maurice always had hoped that if you survived the war, that you would return to us. I am happy that his wish was fulfilled."

With a weak smile and a tearful eye, Gold found he could say nothing but nod in astonishment.

"Mother?" Belle interrupted. "How do you know Mr. Gold?"

"Why, my dear," she said, turning to your daughter. "Your Mr. Gold, in his youth, was once an apprentice of your late father. Although, it was ages ago, before your father passed, before we journeyed to America; quite well before you were born."

"Rumford, is that so?" she turned to him, in awe.

"Aye," he said gently. "Though it was another time, and as your mother said, I was a much younger man."

"Younger, though you are now just as scrawny and spry as you were then; have you not eaten these past thirty years?" the old matron teased.

Gold smiled shyly, slightly embarrassed at the woman's apt observation of his features.

"Perhaps not, madam," he replied, good-naturedly. "The years have... not been the kindest to me."

"Nor us, I daresay," came the sober reply. "But I am glad you are here." Patting his hands, she smiled with genuine contentment. "I am glad you have come to care for my daughter. Though the years have passed, I would still trust you over the many other young men that have come to call upon her."

At this, Belle blushed prettily, while Gold fidgeted and coughed awkwardly.  
  


*  *  *  *  *  *

The night ended somewhere near a quarter past two. And what a fine night it was! What a feast! What company! What games! Even in the shadows the Spirits had shown, could not have prepared Gold for the fluctuation of emotions and joys he experienced at the French's residence. The ladies of her company, and their gentlemen friends, were all quite intelligent and charming. The mother sat and talked a long while with Gold, informing them of their troubles and history since Maurice Marchland had passed on, but mostly reminiscing on happier times and drinking in memory of the good man. 

When at last, the guests had filed out, Gold bade the elderly woman good night and allowed Belle to lead him to the front door.

"Thank you," he said on the doorstep, while she remained int he doorway. "Thank you for inviting me... and for.. for not giving up on me."

Belle smiled, her cheeks flushed with the cold air and warm cider.

"I'm glad I did not," she said. "Otherwise, I would have missed out on such fine company."

"Me?" he replied in wonder.

"Just so," she returned, throwing his scarf about his neck and smiling up at him.

"I-I almost..." he began, awkwardly, scrounging his hands together. "I almost believe that if I were to ask for... t-to ask for..."

"Ask for what?"

"A...kiss?"

Her smiled widened, and her eyes gleamed with mischief, but she said nothing. Instead she tugged the ends of his scarf and kissed him soundly, leaving him dazed as she pulled away, half-aware that the blissful moment had passed.

"Oh Belle," he whispered, reaching out and caressing her face, leaning in and making the moment seem closer, smaller; more their own.

"Goodnight," she returned in a half-whisper. "I love you, my dear Rum."

Her words left him speechless, and he swayed like a man drunk. She stepped back from him then, and slowly closed the door, keeping her eyes on him as she did so.

"Marry me?" he blurted out, feeling like a foolish schoolboy.

Still slowly closing the door, she let out a laugh.

"Of course," she said.  
  


*  *  *  *  *  * 

He was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there. If he could only be there first, and catch David Nolan coming in late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon.

And he did it; yes, he did! The clock struck nine. No David. A quarter past. No David. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time! Gold sat with his door wide open, with a mischievous grin upon his face, that he might see him come in.

His hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o’clock.

“David!” growled Gold, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?”

“I-I am so very sorry, sir,” said David. “I am behind my time.”

“You are?” repeated Gold. “Yes. I think you are. Step this way, dearie, if you please.”

“I-It’s only once a year, sir!” pleaded David, appearing in the office with hesitant steps. “It shall not be repeated, I promise you. I was… just… making rather merry yesterday, sir.”

“Now, I’ll tell you what, dearie,” said Gold, “I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving David such a fright that he staggered back into the front office again; “and therefore, I am about to raise your salary!”

David trembled, and got a near to a ruler he kept on his desk. He had a momentary idea of knocking Gold down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a straight-jacket.

“A merry Christmas, David!” said Gold, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. “A merrier Christmas, David, my dear friend, than I have given you, for many a year! I’ll raise your salary, make you my partner, and endeavor to assist your struggling family. We will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a bowl of mulled wine! Make up the fires and buy another bag of coal before you dot another ‘i,’ David Nolan!”

“W-what?!” Mr. Nolan cried, coming out of his stupor. “Are you in earnest?!”

“Of course,” Gold said, standing back soberly for a moment. “You have worked diligently, my dear Mr. Nolan. It is time I repay your hard work and loyalty, and to ask for your forgiveness.”

He held out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, the poor clerk grasped it warmly, eager to believe in the miracle before him.

"I have not treated you fairly, David," Gold continued. "For that, I am sorry. I promise to make amends for this... as I am trying to make amends for many things in my life."

When the words finally sank into David Nolan's heart, the young man wept freely.

“T-thank you sir,” the man choked out, attempting to compose himself. "I shall work hard for such kindness bestowed upon my family!"

“S’no matter,” Gold replied, awkwardly, and the two men exchanged smiles.

At that moment, Belle burst into the shop.

"Rumford!" she called, jolly and bright. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Nolan! Mother was asking if you were in earnest last night, so I decided to check for myself. Seeing as how you didn't ask for my hand properly from her, I wanted to know if your proposal was legitimate or the effects of too many spirits?"

"A little of both, I should think," Gold joked sheepishly.

"W-what?!" poor David Nolan cried. "What sort of day has befallen us?! Gold a benefactor? I a partner? Belle your fiance?!"

"And the day has only just begun," Gold returned with a laugh.  
  


*  *  *  *  *  * 

Gold was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; to Jefferson's Grace, he was a second father. A title which he regarded as a high honor. Much of his success in this new role, he attributed to Belle, who was the sweetest, kindest, most caring wife a man could ever ask for. Young Grace soon learned to regard them as family. To young Neal, who did not die, Gold endeavored to apprentice him in his father's trade, but after much deliberation, settled on training young Emma in his stead-- who was more apt to numbers than her younger brother.   

In short, Gold became as good a friend, as good a husband, as good a master, and as good a man, as he knew he was capable of becoming. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him, so rich were the other parts of his life that it mattered little.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but believed in them, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge.

May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as little Neal observed:

God bless Us, Every One!


End file.
